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LILIAN. 


BOSTON: 
TICKNOR    AND    FIELDS. 

1863. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1863, 

By  TlCKNOR  AND  FIELDS, 

in  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  District  of  Massachusetts. 


RIVERSIDE,  CAMBRIDGE: 
STEREOTYPED  AND  PRINTED  BY  H.  0.  HOUOHTON. 


L 

CAS6 
@ 


LILIAN. 


i. 

AN  open  glade.  In  the  midst  an  old  oak- 
tree.  At  its  foot  a  girl,  reading.  The  land 
scape  sweet,  tender,  full  of  peace.  The  girl's 
face  sad,  shadowy,  full  of  unrest. 

She  sits  reading  the  Prologue  to  "  Faust." 
She  grasps  the  forbidden  fruit.  Shall  no  hand 
stay  her  ere  she.  have  tasted  of  it,  and  the 
knowledge  of  Good  and  Evil  have  closed  the 
gates  of  Childhood's  Paradise  behind  her  for 
ever  ? 

Who  was  this  girl,  and  how  came  she  to  be 
sitting  under  the  old  oak-tree,  reading  "  Faust  "  ? 

To  answer  these  questions,  we  must  row  back, 
far  up  the  fast  swelling  river  of  Lilian's  life, 
till  we  reach  the  brooklet  of  her  seventh  year. 

Her  parents  lie  in  the  quiet  graveyard  of 
the  gray  little  church  below  the  hill.  Had  you 
questioned  of  the  parish  register,  "  How  long 


6  LILIAN. 

since  ?  "  it  would  have  replied,  "  Two  years." 
Had  you  asked  of  little  Lilian's  heart,  it  would 
have  answered,  "  Yesterday." 

She  had  mourned  them  with  a  passionate 
grief,  beyond  her  childish  years.  No  second 
attachment  came  to  loosen  the  tenacious  clasp 
with  which,  as  ivy-  around  a  fallen  tree,  her 
affections  clung  to  their  memory.  Caressed 
and  indulged  though  she  was,  the  child  in 
stinctively  felt  that  all  who  rightly  loved  and 
comprehended  her  had  passed  from  her  sight 
forever.  Month  by  month,  the  void  of  their 
absence  grew  blacker  and  wider.  As  her  com 
plex  nature  began  to  unfold,  she  felt  the  more 
deeply  the  need  of  that  lost  love  to  harmonize 
what  was  discordant  within  her,  to  solve  the  rid 
dles,  to  clear  up  the  enigmas  of  her  youthful 
life,  with  its  sweet  wisdom  to  reconcile  her  with 
herself. 

Will  and  Ideality  she  had  inherited  from  her 
father,  Impulsiveness  and  Sensitiveness  from  her 
mother.  Had  they  lived,  her  parents  would 
have  understood  the  child,  —  bone  of  their  bone, 
flesh  of  their  flesh,  spirit  of  their  spirit,  —  her 
father  through  his  intellect,  her  mother  through 
her  heart.  But  they  were  not.  The  image  of 


LILIAN.  1 

her  graceful,  sweet-voiced,  dark-eyed  mother,  — 
the  remembrance  of  the  gay  smile,  the  flashing 
blue  eyes,  the  caressing  tones  of  her  father, — 
were  all  that  remained  of  them  to  Lilian.  To 
whom  now  was  she  to  bring  her  yearnings,  her 
questionings,  her  fears,  her  delights  ?  To  whom 
impart  the  ecstasy  that  thrilled  through  her  from 
all  that  was  beautiful :  the  sunlight,  the  flowers, 
the  music  of  the  birds  ;  and  to  whom  whisper 
her  creeping  dread  of  all  ugly  and  harmful 
things  ?  To  whom  reveal  the  keen  desire  that  at 
times  possessed  her  to  run  away  to  the  woods 
and  live  in  freedom  with  the  birds  and  the 
squirrels  ;  and  to  whom  repeat  the  song  that  she 
heard  the  rivulet  sing  from  under  its  grassy 
banks  to  the  little  tender  moon  that  stayed  up 
all  the  morning  to  listen  ?  To  whom  recount 
the  lament  of  the  night  wind,  repenting  in  vain 
remorse  of  its  wicked  deeds  upon  the  sea  ;  and 
to  whom  describe  the  wild  chase  of  monstrous, 
threatening  forms  across  the  cloudy'  sky  ?  To 
whom  confide  her  longings  for  a  happiness  she 
dreamed,  but  knew  not ;  and  to  whom  bring  the 
questionings  that  vaguely  stirred  within  her  of 

this  world  and   the  next  ?     To   none  :   for  little 

* 
Lilian,    the   pet   and    darling    of    the    household, 


8  LILIAN. 

daintily  tended,  tenderly  cherished,  had  no  one 
to  understand  her  inmost  wants,  no  one  to  love. 
To  love  as  she  was  capable  of  loving  ;  not  as 
she  loved  her  grandmother,  one  vast,  soft  cush 
ion,  body  and  mind,  and  her  tall  Irish  stag- 
hound,  Great  Heart ;  —  beings  who  might  be 
considered  to  stand  nearly  upon  a  level  as  to 
intellect,  although  the  dog  possessed  one  incon 
testable  advantage,  in  that,  as  he  never  spoke, 
no  one  could  find  out  the  full  extent  of  his  limi 
tations.  Not  as  she  loved  solemn  Jonathan,  the 
old  coachman,  who  had  given  her  first  lessons 
in  riding,  slowly  pacing  round  the  stable  yard, 
holding  her  on  the  slippery  back  of  one  of  his 
stalwart,  iron-gray  coach  horses ;  and  who  later, 
with  the  long-winded  perseverance  of  an  Eng 
lish  fox-hunter,  scoured  the  country  for  thirty 
miles  round  after  her  snorting,  glossy  black 
mare.  Not  as  she  loved  round,  rosy  Peter,  the 
man-servant,  who  had  from  her  earliest  child 
hood,  improvised  for  her  irregular  feasts  at  all 
sorts  of  irregular  hours,  abducting  the  sunniest 
peaches  and  rarest  nectarines  from  the  trellised 
fruit  garden,  and  secreting  the  choicest  treasures 
of  the  pantry  for  her  sole  use  and  benefit.  Not 
as  she  loved  trig,  black-eyed  Becky,  the  maid, 


LILIAN.  9 

who  never  ended  her  daily  task  of  braiding  and 
coiling  the  unending  length  of  her  young  mis 
tress's  silky  hair,  without  exclaiming  in  a  tone, 
half  laudatory,  half  self-gratulatory,  "  Well,  now, 
Miss  Lilian,  you  do  look  most  beautiful !  "  Not 
as  she  loved  pale,  methodistical  Sophy,  the  cook, 
who  had.  uncomplainingly  given  up  her  sunny 
back-kitchen  parlor  to  the  uses  of  an  aviary,  and 
who  resignedly  saw  the  hours  once  set  aside  for 
the  study  of  the  Bible  and  of  Baxter's  "  Saint's 
Rest"  sacrificed  to  the  daily  encroaching  claims 
of  Lilian's  canaries.  Yet  she  loved  them  all 
well,  better  than  in  strictest  justice  they  de 
served  ;  for  all  had,  ever  since  her  birth,  done 
their  utmost  to  spoil  her.  Such  persevering  and 
consistent  endeavor  could  not  fail  to  meet  with 
some  reward.  Lilian  was  more  than  a  little 
spoiled.  Not  in  the  vulgar  acceptation  of  the 
term.  No  petty,  provoking  faults  sullied  the 
sweet  life  of  the  lovely,  caressing  child,  but  an 
untamed  energy  of  will,  an  unchecked  intensity 
of  impulse  were  slowly  and  silently  evolving 
themselves  ;  —  destructive,  electric  forces,  yet  hid 
within  the  sunny  heaven  of  little  Lilian's  smile. 


10  LILIAN. 

II. 

ONCE  and  once  only  during  her  petted  child 
hood  did  the  latent  vehemence  of  Lilian's  nature 
break  forth  in  full  force,  exploding  as  suddenly, 
and  well-nigh  as  murderously  as  a  bombshell. 

High  among  the  strange,  barbaric  weapons 
which  lined  the  hall  of  the  old  mansion  house, 
relics  of  an  outlandish  taste  of  her  great-grand 
father's,  hung  an  Indian  bow  and  quiver  of 
arrows.  These,  Lilian,  fired  by  the  example  of 
Robinson  Crusoe,  appropriated,  and  with  charac 
teristic,  most  unchildlike  perseverance,  practised 
with  them  until  her  hand  and  eye  would  have 
done  honor  to  her  hero  himself.  Her  weapons 
were  for  the  time  her  inseparable  companions. 

It  chanced  that,  thus  equipped,  she  was  climb 
ing  one  afternoon,  high  among  the  spreading 
branches  of  the  great  tree  at  the  bottom  of  the 
garden,  examining  whether,  should  the  house 
happen  to  burn  down  in  the  night,  and  the 
neighbors  refuse  to  take  her  in,  she  could  find 
a  place  among  the  boughs  to  sleep  in  like  Rob 
inson  Crusoe,  —  a  place  where  she  could  be 
sure  of  not  falling  down  and  breaking  her  leg. 
While  thus  busily  engaged,  her  ear  was  smitten 


LILIAN.  11 

by  a  woful  sound.  The  piteous  moaning  of  a 
kitten  rose  from  the  path,  on  the  outer  side  of 
the  garden-wall.  Clambering  along  the  over 
hanging  branches,  with  anger  and  apprehension 
indescribable,  she  saw  below  her  own  pretty 
little  kitten,  swinging  by  its  tail  from  the  hand 
of  an  Italian  organ-grinding  boy. 

"  You  wicked  boy,  put  down  my  kitten ;  put 
her  down  this  minute  !  "  shrieked  Lilian. 

The  boy  looked  up,  grinning  maliciously,  with 
the  habitual  insolence  of  foreign  vagrants  in 
America ;  and  turning,  so  as  to  face  the  child, 
began  to  swing  the  screaming  kitten  with  re 
doubled  energy,  obviously  intending,  so  soon  as 
the  momentum  should  be  satisfactory,  to  launch 
it,  head  foremost,  against  the  stone  wall. 

Not  an  instant  was  to  be  lost.  White  with 
rage,  Lilian  dropped  astride  on  the  great  bough. 
The  bow  was  strong,  the  arrow  sharp,  the  arm 
of  the  little  archer  steady,  the  distance  short. 
.The  bowstring  twanged,  and  the  whizzing  arrow 
planted  its  lesson  of  humanity  deep  in  the  leg 
of  the  little  brown  Caligula,  who  fell  to  the 
ground  with  piercing  shrieks.  The  kitten,  sud 
denly  released,  disappeared  with  celerity ;  Lilian 
slipped  down  from  the  bough  and  stood  over  her 
prostrate  foe,  wringing  her  hands  in  pale  and 


12  LILIAN. 

wild  dismay,  while  the  startled  Great  Heart  from 
the  inner  side  of  the  high  garden-wall,  Cerberus- 
like,  barked,  whined,  and  howled,  all  at  once. 

It  is  doubtful  whether  Lilian  had  ever,  in  the 
whole  course  of  her  life,  heard  of  such  a  thing 
as  Providential  Interference ;  but  certain  it  is 
that  she  devoutly  believed  in  it  from  that  mo 
ment  when,  in  her  direst  extremity  of  need,  a 
tall  shadow  fell  across  the  yelling  heap  at  her 
feet,  and  a  deep  voice  of  kindly  tone  said,  in  for 
eign  accents  to  the  wounded  boy,  — 

"  Cosa  hai,  poverello  ?  " 

A  lofty  form  stooped  over  the  little  Italian, 
whose  cries  ceased  as  by  magic  at  the  first  sound 
of  his  native  tongue.  Gently  and  skilfully  the 
arrow  was  extracted,  the  leg  bound  up  with 
Lilian's  pocket-handkerchief,  and  the  little  vag 
abond  dismissed  with  a  gratuity  of  silver  coins, 
which  brought  a  quick  succession  of  glittering 
smiles  over  his  dirty,  tear-smeared  face. 

Still  Lilian  stood  as  if  rooted  to  the  ground, 
sobbing  and  speechless,  till  the  gentleman,  tak 
ing  her  hand,  attempted  to  soothe  her.  "  After 
all,  the  wound  was  but  a  slight  one,  and  she 
had  not  intended  to  hurt  the  little  boy."  She 
snatched  away  her  hand  and  chokingly  ex 
claimed,  — 


LILIAN.  13 

"  But  I  did  do  it  on  purpose.  He  was  going 
to  kill  my  kitten,  and  I  tried  to  kill  him  first." 
And  ere  the  stranger  had  recovered  from  his 
surprise  at  this  new  view  of  the  case,  the  sobs 
died  into  gasps,  and  with  a  sickening  groan  the 
child  reeled  backward. 

No  cold,  unyielding  ground  received  her.  The 
sinking  little  frame  was  lifted  in  strong  arms,  and 
the  stranger,  seating  himself  on  the  low,  grassy 
bank,  laid  her  head  on  his  broad  chest,  and  gen 
tly  dried  her  pale,  wet  cheeks. 

With  still  approach  a  sense  of  peace  and  pro 
tection  ineffable  stole  over  her.  Slowly  a  soft, 
white  cloud  seemed  to  descend  upon  her  and  fold 
her  into  dream-land.  The  events  of  the  past 
hour  appeared  to  belong  to  another  life.  Her 
anger,  her  terror,  her  distress,  had  passed  away. 
A  pulseless  quiet  drowned  her  every  sense;  nor 
did  she  awake  to  the  full  consciousness  of  what 
had  occurred,  until  she  had  been  carried  into 
the  house  and  delivered  into  her  grandmother's 
wondering  arms. 

Secretfve,  like  all  sensitive  children,  Lilian 
shunned  all  converse  and  comment  upon  her  ac 
cident,  as  this  outbreak  of  passion  was  termed  by 
the  partial  household ;  but  none  the  less  firmly 


14  LILIAN. 

did  she  cherish  in  her  inmost  heart  the  convic 
tion  that  the  tall,  strange  gentleman  had  been 
divinely  sent  to  save  the  organ-boy's  life,  —  for 
with  the  imaginative  ignorance  of  childhood  she 
shiveringly  believed  that  her  anger  had  compro 
mised  the  little  Italian's  existence,  —  and  to  pre 
serve  herself  from  the  pains  and  penalties,  earthly 
and  eternal,  attached  to  the  crime  of  murder. 

So  that  night  and  every  night,  after  Becky, 
with  loving  words  and  energetic  kisses,  had  de 
posited  her  darling  in  the  smooth-spread  solitude 
of  the  great  white  bed,  where  she  lay  like  a 
blush  rose-bud  peeping  from  a  snow-drift,  and 
with  parting  benediction  had  closed  the  heavy 
door,  Lilian,  creeping  from  her  covert  and  slid 
ing  down  the  slippery  height,  knelt  in  the  shad 
owy  stillness  and  completed  the  unfinished  prayer 
begun  at  Becky's  knee,  devoutly  thanking  God 
for  having  sent  the  strange  gentleman  to  help 
her  when  she  had  been  so  wicked,  and  peni 
tently  imploring  that  He  would  never,  never  let 
her  be  such  a  naughty  girl  again  ;  then  clamber 
ing  up  the  old  carved  mahogany  bedpost,  like 
a  kitten,  she  would  slip  into  her  yet  warm  nest 
and  fall  asleep,  —  the  deep-toned  voice  and  the 
grave,  kindly  eyes  of  the  stranger  mingling  with 
her  dreams. 


LILIAN.  15 

III. 

IT  might  have  been  a  fortnight  later,  when, 
with  bent  head  and  folded  arms,  a  tall  form  was 
slowly  pacing  the  road  which  skirted  the  church 
yard  wall.  A  lullaby,  sung  low  in  a  childish 
voice,  floated  towards  him  on  the  still  air.  It 
came  from  the  churchyard.  The  high  wall  shut 
out  all  view  from  the  road,  but  turning  an  angle 
where  it  was  lower,  he  saw  within. 

The  setting  sun  shot  long,  level,  golden  bars 
athwart  the  dark  trunks  of  the  encircling  trees, 
over  a  woful  waste.  Nature  ran  fierce  riot, 
unreproved,  over  the  deserted  graves ;  and  in 
sullen  exultation,  seemed  to  triumph  over  her 
fallen  competitor,  —  Man. 

From  amid  the  writhing  witch-grass,  sharp- 
pointed  nettles  reared  their  purple  heads,  and 
white  mulleins  stretched  rankly  forth  their  tall, 
knotted,  colorless  spires.  Giant  dock-weeds  spread 
wide  their  unwholesome  leaves,  as  if  to  hide  the 
sunken  head-stones.  Toadstools  and  mushrooms 
crouched  livid  on  the  dank  mould,  while  across 
the  untrodden  path,  snarling  briers  and  poison 
ous  creepers  stretched  their  repellant  arms,  wav 
ing  back  the  rare  intruder  on  their  assured  do 
main. 


16  LILIAN. 

No  kindly  remembrance,  no  loving,  linger 
ing  care,  extended  its  protection  over  the  silent 
dwellers  beneath.  All  lay  unheeded,  all  were  for 
gotten,  save  by  one  mourner,  —  one  little  child. 
-  In  the  dark  shadow  of  the  wall,  between  two 
long,  green,  carefully  tended  graves,  like  a  little 
white  monumental  effigy,  sat  Lilian,  her  great' 
stag-hound  crouching  at  her  feet.  The  lullaby' 
ceased,  but  she  still  sat  motionless.  The  dog 
raised  his  head  warily  with  a  low  growl,  as  the 
stranger,  entering  this  home  of  desolation,  ap 
proached  her  graves.  Then  she  arose,  and  mov 
ing  towards  him,  — 

"  Come  away,"  she  said  jealously. 

He  followed  as  she  led  the  way  out  of  the 
graveyard,  and  walked  beside  her  along  the 
path,  thinking  she  was  the  strangest,  prettiest 
little  creature  he  had  ever  seen.  The  fancy 
seized  him  to  make  her  talk. 

"  What  is  your  name,  little  one  ?  " 

"  Lilian." 

Rather  thinking  aloud  than  calculating  the 
effect  of  his  words,  the  stranger  continued,  — 

"  Are  you  lonely  ?  " 

"No." 

A  pause.     The  living  pain  buried  in  Lilian's 


LILIAN.  17 

heart  turned  restlessly.  The  erect  head  drooped, 
and  in  a  changed  voice  she  answered  again, — 

"  Yes,  very." 

"  Poor  child  ;  I  have  pained  her,"  thought 
the  stranger. 

They  were  passing  the  church-porch.  "  Will 
you  come  and  sit  with  me  in  the  porch,  Lilian  ?  " 
he  said,  in  the  deep,  pleasant  voice  she  remem 
bered  so  well.  "  It  is  not  the  first  time  we  have 
sat  together,  you  know." 

The  shadow  on  Lilian's  forehead  passed.  She 
looked  up  with  a  coy,  trusting  smile,  and  turned 
towards  the  porch.  He  took  her  on  his  knee 
and  sat  for  a  while  silently  smoothing  her  silky 
hair.  Lilian  scarcely  breathed ;  —  she  was  in  a 
trance  of  happiness.  He  who  mingled  with  her 
daily  and  nightly  dreams  was  actually  holding 
her  again  upon  his  knee.  Would  he  speak  once 
more  to  her  ?  What  would  he  say  ?  At  length 
the  question  came. 

"  Do  you  often  come  here,  my  child  ?  " 

There  was  an  indescribable  compassion  in  the 
tone,  that  opened  Lilian's  heart.  She  felt  im 
pelled  to  tell  this  stranger,  whom  she  had  seen 
only  once  before  in  her  life,  things  that  she  had 
never  dreamed  of  saying  to  her  grandmother, 


18  LILIAN. 

nor  to  Becky,  nor  to  any  one  else.  Full  and 
free  came  her  answers,  certain  of  comprehension, 
sure  of  sympathy. 

"  Yes,  very  often.     I  love  to  come  here." 

44  And  you  sing  in  the  churchyard  ?  " 

44  Yes.  My  mother  used  to  sing  me  to  sleep 
with  that  song,  and  my  father  used  to  sit  hold 
ing  her  hand  and  listening.  I  come  with  Great 
Heart  very  often,  —  Great  Heart  was  my  father's 
dog,  —  and  sing  it  to  them.  I  know  they  like 
to  hear  it." 

The  stranger  pressed  a  silent  kiss  upon  little 
Lilian's  forehead. 

She  began  to  question  in  her  turn. 

44  Have  you  got  any  father  or  mother  ?  " 

44  No." 

44  Any  brothers  or  sisters  ?  " 

44  No." 

44  Any  grandmamma  to  take  care  of  you  ?  " 

44  No." 

44  What's  your  name  ?  " 

44  Clinton." 

44  Where  do  you  live  ?  " 

44  In  the  house  just  above  us  ?  " 

44  What,  have  you  come  to  live  in  the  great 
house  on  the  hi}!  ?  " 

44  Yes." 


LILIAN.  19 

"I'm  glad.  Now  I  must  go  home.  —  Good-by." 
"  Will  you  give  me  a  kiss,  Lilian  ?  "  said  the 
stranger,  ere  he  put  her  down. 

The  cherub  head  was  thrown  back,  the  little 
rosy  arms  cast  frankly  around  his  neck,  the 
sweet  lips  pressed  to  his  dark  cheek.  Then,  fol 
lowed  by  the  great  hound,  the  child  flitted  into 
the  fading  sunlight  and  disappeared. 


IV. 

DWELLING  in  the  comparative  solitude  of  the 
country,  not  far  apart,  Lilian  and  Mr.  Clinton 
often  met.  One  of  those  rare  and  beautiful  at 
tachments  which  we  sometimes  see  existing  in 
spite  of,  perhaps  because  of,  the  widest  differen 
ces  in  age  and  character,  sprang  up  between  the 
studious,  stately  gentleman,  and  the  little  impul 
sive  child ;  devoted  and  enthusiastic  on  her  part, 
tranquil  but  tender  on  his. 

Grandmamma,  "  who  had  always  known  Mr. 
Clinton's  family,"  looked  with  complacency  upon 
the  growing  intimacy.  "Lilian,"  she  said,  "had 
never  seen  much  of  other  children,  and  those  she 
had  seen  she  fhad  not  seemed  to  like.  The  child 
needed  some  sort  of  a  companion,  and  since  she 


20  LILIAN. 

had  taken  such  an  extraordinary  fancy  to  Mr. 
Clinton,  and  he  seemed  to  like  to  have  her  with 
him,  for  her  part  she  was  glad  to  know  her  in 
such  good  hands,  safe  and  out  of  harass  way." 

Now  came  happy  days  to  little  Lilian.  Her 
heart  and  intellect  expanded  like  flowers  in  sun 
light.  Each  moment  fell  like  a  golden  drop  into 
the  crystal  cup  of  her  young  life.  She  was 
loved.  Her  beauty  fascinated  Mr.  Clinton's  eye, 
her  affection  touched  his  heart,  her  delicate  na 
ture  with  its  core  of  fire  interested  his  imagina 
tion,  her  sunny  presence  shed  pleasant  light 
through  his  home.  Often  did  he  look  up  from 
his  book  or  "his  writing  to  meet  the  loving  gaze 
bent  upon  him  from  the  clear  eyes  of  the  child, 
standing  noiselessly  at  the  half-opened  door,  pa 
tiently  awaiting  his  summons.  Then,  wonted 
welcome  given,  she  would  draw  a  cushion  to  his 
feet,  and  place  herself  there,  leaning  her  glossy 
head  against  his  knee,  motionless  with  happiness. 

The  delight  of  those  silent  hours  ;  the  library 
with  its  sober,  many-tinted  lining  of  awe-inspir 
ing  tomes,  half  darkened  to  exclude  the  summer 
heat  ;  the  rare  old  pictures,  the  marble  busts,  the 
soft  low  hum  of  insect  life  without ;  the  hush  of 


LILIAN.  21 

cool  stillness  within,  only  broken  by  the  turning 
of  a  leaf  or  the  motion  of  the  pen ;  —  would 
Lilian  ever  be  so  happy  again  ? 

She  loved  Mr.  Clinton  with  a  religious  adora 
tion.  He  was  so  great,  so  good,  so  glorious ! 
If  she  could  only  do  something  to  show  him  how 
much  she  loved  him  !  As  she  sat  hour  after  hour 
at  his  feet,  she  would  imagine  wild  scenes  in  which 
in  fancy  her  affection  would  at  length  have  scope. 
He  would  be  bound  by  savages,  and  she,  in  the 
creeping  silence  of  the  night,  lighted  by  the  red 
glare  of  the  embers  of  the  fire,  would  steal  across 
the  sleeping  forms  of  the  fierce,  red-skinned  blood 
hounds,  and  cut  his  bonds ;  then  lead  him  to 
where  She  had  tied  two  horses,  and  they  would 
mount  and  be  far  away  ere  day  should  break,  and 
the  grim  Indians  miss  their  prey. 

Or  his  house  would  take  fire  in  the  night,  and 
the  black  smoke  would  be  pouring  from  all  the 
windows,  and  the  open  portal  would  show  a  fiery 
glare  within,  with  serpent-like  flames  springing 
from  every  door;  and  he  would  be  in  his  room 
asleep,  and  no  one  would  dare  to  go  in  to  wake 
him  ;  and  she  would  throw  a  blanket  over  her, 
and  rush  through  the  smoke  and  past  the  flames, 
and  reach  his  door,  and  rouse  him,  just  in  time  to 


22  LILIAN. 

save  him,  before  the  stairs  fell  in.  Or  (this  was 
the  worst  of  all,  and  always  brought  a  groan), 
they  would  be  walking  together  in  the  woods,  and 
he  would  grow  tired,  and  lie  down  under  a  great, 
dark  tree,  and  fall  asleep,  and  she  would  sit  down 
and  watch  him,  and,  while  watching  him,  would 
hear  a  rustling  in  the  tree  above,  and  look  up  and 
see  the  fiery  eyes  of  a  great  panther  fixed  upon 
him,  and  then  she  would  softly  run  forward  and 
stand  under  the  panther,  and  it  would  spring  down 
upon  her,  and  eat  her  up ;  then,  being  no  longer 
hungry,  it  would  go  away,  and  not  hurt  Mr. 
Clinton.  Wild  fancies  all,  but  containing  a  germ 
of  truth.  Lilian  was  capable  of  exposing,  nay,  of 
sacrificing  her  life  itself,  for  those  she  loved. 

But  at  length  the  book  or  letters  would  be  laid 
aside,  and  Mr.  Clinton,  lifting  her  on  his  knee, 
would  talk  with  her,  and  tell  her  of  wonderful 
things, — of  the  lofty  halls  of  the  Mammoth  Cave, 
with  their  mirrors,  pillars,  and  curtains  of  glitter 
ing  stalactites,  its  black  river,  filled  with  eyeless 
fishes,  its  mysterious  passages,  stretching  miles 
and  miles  away,  so  deep  into  the  earth  that  travel 
lers  have  come  back  after  many  days  unable  to 
reach  the  end, — its  Indian  princess,  whom  the  first 
discoverers  found,  decked  with  savage  ornaments, 


LILIAN.  23 

seated  in  funereal  state,  in  the  great  rocky  arm 
chair  of  one  of  the  shining  halls,  —  of  the  mounds 
and  breastworks,  imaging  serpents,  and  strange 
Eastern  symbols  found  in  the  far  West,  left  by 
vanished  races,  —  of  the  great  Salt  Desert,  which 
spreads  like  a  frozen  sea,  gleaming  as  far  as  the 
eye  can  reach,  strewn  with  the  bones  of  man  and 
beast,  —  of  rough-clad  miners,  digging  the  heavy 
quartz  from  the  wild  gorges  of  Californian  moun 
tains,  and  crushing  it  with  ponderous  hammers,  to 
extract  the  shining  gold.  Of  marvels  of  the  West 
and  of  the  East  (and  of  such  of  Nature's  hidden 
laws  her  occult  forces  and  secret  processes  as  a 
child  might  understand)  he  taught  her,  listening 
with  suspended  breath  ;  and,  when  the  new  knowl 
edge  had  been  curiously  examined,  wondered  at, 
and  stored  away,  Lilian  would  nestle  closer  to 
him,  and  whisper, — 

"  Now  is  the  time  you  tell  me  about  God." 


V. 

GLAD  as  the  sunlight,  joyous  as  the  rainbow, 
so  brilliant,  so  evanescent,  was  Lilian's  summer 
dream.  Must  in  this  world  even  a  little  child 
learn  that  to  love  is  to  suffer ! 


24  LILIAN. 

Slowly  Lilian  walked  up  the  garden-walk.  She 
seated  herself  in  the  shade  under  the  drawing- 
room  windows.  The  sound  of  voices  from  within 
came  upon  her  ear,  but  came  unheeded.  She  sat 
looking  through  the  tree-tops  up  into  the  sky, 
watching  the  little  white  clouds  as  they  dissolved 
in  the  fervent  blue,  and  musing  wistfully.  Mr. 
Clinton  had  bidden  her  good-by,  for  an  absence 
of  a  few  days,  with  a  promise  to  come  and  see  her 
as  soon  as  he  returned.  It  was  a  whole  fortnight 
ago,  and  yet  he  had  not  come.  She  missed  him 
so  much.  When  should  she  see  him  again  ?  Sud 
denly  her  attention  was  arrested  by.  the  concluding 
words  of  a  sentence,  spoken  in  a  louder  key  than 
those  which  had  preceded  it. 

" so  very  ill!" 

"Yes,"  answered  her  grandmother's  voice,  "the 
doctor  says  it  is  a  bad  case." 

"  And  poor,  little  Lilian,  she's  so  fond  of  him ; 
how  does  she  take  it  ?  " 

"  Oh,  we  don't  let  her  know  anything  about  it. 
She'd  fret  her  life  out." 

Lilian's  heart  gave  a  fearful  leap,  then  stood 
still.  There  was  a  rushing  sound  in  her  ears. 
For  a  moment,  she  saw  nothing.  Then,  she  knew 
not  how,  she  found  herself  speeding  along  the 


LILIAN.  25 

road,  a  horrible  fear  clutching  at  her  throat.  On 
— on — through  the  scorching  heat,  —  on  —  on. 
She  shuddered,  as-  though  an  icy  wind  had.  struck 
on  her,  as  she  passed  under  the  twilight  of  the 
churchyard  trees.  Was  he,  too,  on  his  way 
thither  ?  The  great  house  rose  before  her,  on  the 
hill,  —  nearer  —  nearer.  She  was  there.  She 
crept  stealthily  along  the  silent  hall.  There  was 
a  strange  hush  in  the  house.  Past  the  drawing- 
rooms,  past  the  library,  through  his  dressing-room, 
she  stood  at  his  open  door,  the  blood  surging  in 
heavy  waves  through  breast  and  brain.  There 
was  a  stillness  like  the  shadow  of  death  within. 
As  she  gazed  with  eyes  whose  longing  look  seemed 
almost  able  to  pierce  the  heavy  curtains  that 
shrouded  what  she  loved  best  on  earth  from  her 
sight,  she  heard  a  slight  stir  as  if  a  head  turned 
upon  a  pillow, —  one  faint  word, — 

"  Water." 

There  was  no  response.  On  tiptoe  she  advanced, 
and  stole  a  cautious  glance  around  the  room.  In 
the  farthest  corner,  sat  a  woman  she  had  never 
seen  before,  sleeping.  With  a  pang  of  joy,  the 
child  glided  forward,  took  the  cup  of  cold  water 
from  its  stand,  and  held  it  to  those  beloved  lips, 
but  shivered  as  she  saw  those  wasted  features,  and 

3 


26  LILIAN. 

that  blue,  wan  hue.  He  drank,  and  was  refreshed. 
He  looked  on  her,  and  knew  her.  Too  weak  for 
words,  he  would  have  raised  his  hand  as  in  the 
old  caress.  The  silken  head  bent  low  to  meet  it, 
but  in  vain.  Wearily  it  fell  back.  With  a  wo 
man's  fortitude,  Lilian  pressed  back  her  tears. 
She  smiled  bravely  as  she  took  the  hot,  nerveless 
hand  in  her  fresh,  soft  palms,  and  looked  into  his 
face  with  love  unutterable. 

A  healing  influence  seemed  to  flow  from  out  the 
child.  Her  touch  sent  grateful  coolness  through 
the  fevered  frame.  That  loving  gaze  gave  to  the 
weary,  wandering  thought  something  whereon  to 
rest.  His  look  fixed  on  hers,  his  hand  clasped  in 
hers,  Mr.  Clinton  fell  into  a  quiet  slumber,  the 
first  for  many  days. 

Lilian,  statue  still,  watched  and  prayed,  —  pray 
ed  as  a  little  child  prays,  with  a  vague,  uncertain 
hope  that  God  would  see  how  wretched  she  was, 
and  hear  her. 

The  slow  hours  drew  on.  The  breath  of  the 
sick  man  came  in  fuller,  deeper  inspirations,  the 
burning  palm  insensibly  grew  moist,  the  contracted 
brow  relaxed.  Still  he  slept  on. 

The  nurse  awoke,  and  saw  her  place  thus  filled. 
She  advanced  in  ruffled  dignity  of  office  to  re- 


LILIAN.  27 

monstrate;  but,  ere  she  had  breathed  the  first 
word  of  her  protest,  was  waved  back ;  so  fierce 
a  light  flashing  from  the  child's  eyes,  that  she 
silently  returned  to  her  treacherous  easy-chair, 
there  to  await  the  doctor's  decree  of  expulsion 
against  the  daring  intruder. 

The  shadows  lengthened,  widened,  and  blended. 
The  air  grew  cool  with  dew;  the  evening  song 
of  the  crickets  came  through  the  gathering  gloom, 
ere  the  sick  man  wakened.  He  looked  at  her 
long  and  earnestly.  He  pressed  the  hand  that 
claspingly  held  his.  He  spoke.  All  her  senses 
centred  in  her  ear. 

"  Dear  child." 

Her  throat  swelled.     She  must  ask  him. 

"  Are  you  better  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

Awe  came  upon  her,  greater  even  than  her  joy. 
Had  God  really  heard  her  prayer  ?  Had  he,  at 
her  cry,  bent  down  from  his  throne,  and,  clement, 
taken  pity  on  her  misery,  changed  his  dread  de 
cree,  and  given  Life  for  Death? 

"  Miss  Lilian,"  whispered  a  voice  from  the 
door. 

Lilian  cast  a  rapid  glance  at  the  half-hidden 
speaker.  The  moment  of  the  expected  encounter 


28  LILIAN. 

had  come.  Releasing  the  hand  she  still  held,  she 
entered  the  dressing-room,  and  softly  closed  the 
door.  Pale,  erect,  and  fiery,  she  faced  the  quail 
ing  Becky. 

"  Becky,  don't  speak.  I  know  all  you've  got 
to  say.  Now  do  you  listen,  and  then  do  you  go 
back,  and  tell  grandmamma  every  word  you  hear. 
I  won't  go  home.  I  mean  to  stay  here,  and  take 
care  of  Mr.  Clinton.  He  wants  me,  and  I  shall 
stay.  I  shall  take  care  of  him  till  he  gets  well ; 
and  if  he  does  not  get  well,"  —  here  her  voice  al 
most  choked,  but  with  a  powerful  effort  the  child 
again  commanded  it,  —  "  if  he  dies,  I  mean  to  die 
too. —  Good-by,  Becky." 

She  threw  her  arms  around  Becky's  neck,  kissed 
her,  and  disappeared  in  Mr.  Clinton's  room. 

Slowly  the  astounded  Becky  retraced  her  steps, 
and  punctually  did  she  repeat  to  Lilian's  grand 
mother  the  message  she  was  charged  to  bear. 

"  She  was  all  white,  ma'am,"  Becky  concluded 
her  narration,  "  and  she  looked  twice  as  tall  as 
she  ever  did  before,  and  her  eyes  shone  like  a 
cat's  in  the  dark.  She  looked  so  like  her  father, 
when  he  was  angry,  that  I  was  e'en  a' most  scared 
to  see  her.  I  think,  ma'am,  you'd  better  just  let 


LILIAN.  29 

her  be.  No  good  never  came  of  crossing  her 
father ;  and  it's  my  private  'pinion  that  no  good 
'11  ever  come  of  crossing  Miss  Lilian,  neither." 

Distressed  as  Mrs.  DeKahn  was  at  the  ill  suc 
cess  of  her  messenger,  she  was  too  entirely  of 
Becky's  opinion  as  to  the  hopelessness  of  any 
attempt  at  changing  Lilian's  determination,  to 
make  any  further  efforts ;  so  she  "  gave  up  the 
point,"  as  she  expressed  it,  and  contented  her 
self  with  the  most  careful  supervision  of  the 
child's  toilet  practicable  at  a  distance. 

When  the  little,  round,  fat,  good-natured  doc 
tor,  a  fast  friend  of  Lilian's,  made  his  evening 
call,  he  found  a  notable  change  for  the  better  in 
his  patient ;  and  being  a  man  so  wise  in  his  gen 
eration  as  to  entertain  a  profound  conviction  that 
Nature  has  many  mysteries  yet  to  be  probed, 
and  to  firmly  believe  in  the  power  and  efficacy 
of  Moral  Medicine ;  he  gave  cheerful  permission 
that  the  child  should  remain.  But  not  without 
conditions.  His  professional  visit  over,  he  drew 
Lilian  to  the  veranda,  and  with  unprofessional 
directness  began,  — 

"  Now,  my  little  girl,  Mr.  Clinton  is  better, 
and,  what's  more,  I  think  you  have  had  some- 

3* 


30  LILIAN. 

thing  to  do  with  it.  But  don't  let  me  have  any 
more  standing  up  all  the  afternoon.  You  may 
sit  by  him  and  hold  his  hand  all  day  long  if 
you  like,  but  don't  stand,  don't  do  anything  to 
fatigue  yourself.  If  you  get  tired,  it  will  be  the 
worse  for  him.  And  mind,  you  must  go  to  bed 
at  the  same  hour  that  you  do  at  home,  and  take 
your  meals  regularly ;  and  every  day,  after  I 
make  my  morning-call,  I  shall  take  you  down 
to  see  your  grandmother,  on  my  way  to  the  vil 
lage,  and  you  can  run  back  with  Great  Heart. 
Good-night.  You're  a  good  little  girl,  and  I'd 
much  rather  trust  you  to  take  care  of  him,  than 
that  nurse." 

So  Lilian,  full  of  thankfulness,  pride,  and  hap 
piness,  was  authoritatively  installed  at  Mr.  Clin 
ton's  bedside ;  and  the  fat  little  doctor,  mounting 
his  gray  horse,  jogged  through  the  twilight  down 
the  road,  mentally  soliloquizing  in  a  fragmentary, 
jerking  sort  of  way. 

"  Never  could  understand  why  holding  a  pa 
tient's  hand  reduces  fever,  and  puts  him  to  sleep. 
But  it  does,  —  that's  certain.  Good  child  that, 

—  handy  and  reasonable.  —  Image  of  her  mother ! 

—  He's  fond  of  her.  —  See  that  by  the  way  he 
looks  at  her. — Needs  something  about  him  that 


LILIAN.  31 

he  loves,  —  all  patients  do.  —  Feel  better  about 
him  this  evening.  —  Great  thing  that  sleep  !  — 
Didn't  like  his  looks  at  noon.  —  Ugly  things  these 
fevers.  —  But  I  think  he'll  get  through." 

With  a  feeling  of  inexpressible  relief,  Mr.  Clin 
ton  on  the  morrow,  saw  the  nurse,  a  ponderous, 
jelly-like  woman,  retreat  to  her  newly  assigned 
post  in  the  dressing-room.  His  strong  nerves 
had  become  morbidly  sensitive,  his  rigidly  con 
trolled  fancy,  intolerably  capricious.  The  pres 
ence  of  the  woman  had  grown  hateful  to  him. 
Her  shapeless  figure  disgusted  him,  her  elephan 
tine  tread  oppressed  him,  her  wheedling  voice 
irritated  him.  The  pillow  smoothed  by  her  toad- 
like  hands  felt  uneasy  to  his  head,  the  beverage 
they  presented  was  nauseous  to  his  taste.  With 
all  the  strength  his  fever  had  left  him,  he  had 
struggled  against  this  aversion,  but  in  vain.  Day 
by  day  it  increased  upon  him.  Fanciful  as  a 
woman,  unreasonable  as  a  child,  he  shuddered 
whenever  she  approached  him. 

Now  that  she  was  gone  out  of  his  sight,  the 
room  seemed  to  grow  larger,  the  air  freer,  and 
with  a  sigh  of  grateful  relief  he  turned  his  eyes 
upon  the  dainty  little  guardian  sitting  by  his  side. 


32  LILIAN. 

The  air  came  fresh  with  morning  odors  through 
the  open  window.  Little  birds  twittered  from  the 
garden  walks.  Soft  clouds  chased  each  other  over 
the  blue  sky.  A  gentle  wind  stirred  the  tree- 
tops  and  waved  the  wreaths  of  honeysuckle  that 
climbed  around  the  casement.  The  glad  and 
quiet  content  of  all  things  without  spread  itself 
through  the  sick  man's  chamber.  The  tide  of 
returning  life  stirred  within  him.  He  breathed 
deeply  of  the  flower-scented  air.  He  smiled  as 
a  little  brown  sparrow  perched  upon  the  window- 
sill,  turning  its  restless  head  from  side  to  side, 
with  bright,  quick  eyes,  curiously  spying  within. 
He  watched  the  honeysuckle  waving  around  the 
window,  and  then  its  shadow  moving  in  concert 
on  the  floor.  Little  things  pleased  him.  A  still 
sense  of  happiness  stole  over  him  like  a  benedic 
tion.  Pie  felt  that  it  was  good  to  live. 

Pleasant  were  those  quiet,  intensely  vivid,  yet 
dream-like  days  of  convalescence.  All  the  lighter 
duties  of  attendance  Lilian  assumed,  and  dis 
charged  with  watchful,  unassuming  tact.  She 
never  asked  a  question,  yet  knew  as  by  instinct 
when  the  pillow  grew  hard  beneath  the  aching 
head,  when  the  weary  eyes  coveted  soft  shadow, 


LILIAN.  33 

when  the  fevered  lips  craved  the  refreshing 
draught.  Noiselessly  she  moved  about  the  room 
on  her  ministrations,  while  Mr.  Clinton's  eyes 
with  languid  pleasure  followed  the  music  of  her 
wavelike  motion  ;  or  as  she  sat  tranquilly  vig 
ilant  before  him,  would  scan  her  beauty  with 
ever  new  delight;  —  her  cloudy  hair,  her  pure 
forehead,  her  creamy  complexion,  the  delicate 
tracing  of  her  features.  Nought  about  the  child 
was  coarse,  blurred,  or  ill-defined.  She  was  fin 
ished  like  an  antique  gem. 

As  she  would  sit,  in  her  light  draperies  of 
tinted  muslin,  on  a  low  seat  beside  his  bed,  hold 
ing  his  hand  hour  after  hour,  —  or,  her  lap  filled 
with  freshly-gathered  flowers,  fashioning  wreaths 
and  bouquets  to  gladden  his  sick  room,  her  eyes 
lifted  every  little  while  with  a  silent,  loving 
smile  towards  him,  —  Mr.  Clinton  could  feel  the 
very  tendrils  of  his  heart  weaving  themselves 
about  her.  He  had  always  loved  her,  but  now 
she  grew  infinitely  dear  to  him.  He  felt  tow 
ards  her  the  tenderness  of  a  father,  the  pride  of 
a  brother,  the  reverence  of  a  man. 

Beautiful  was  the  love  between  them.  Strange 
the  reversal  of  their  respective  positions,  —  the 
child  watching  over  the  man. 


34  LILIAN. 

No  hand  save  hers  might  spread  the  snowy 
napkin  on  the  silver  waiter,  deck  it  with  flowers, 
and  arrange  the  dainty  meal  to  tempt  the  sick 
man's  taste.  No  touch  save  hers  bathe  his  fore 
head  with  fragrant  waters,  and  smooth  back  the 
heavy  masses  of  his  hair.  No  arm  but  hers  wave, 
to  cool  the  sultry  air,  the  great  Indian  fan,  gay 
with  peacock's  feathers,  stiff  with  its  huge  crim 
son  rosette.  And  later,  when  he  could  leave  his 
bed  and  lie  on  the  sofa  under  the  shadow  of  the 
leafy-screened  veranda,  no  voice  save  hers  read 
to  him  hour  after  hour  his  favorite  books. 

No  relapse  came  to  retard  Mr.  Clinton's  re 
covery.  •  A  constitution  that  had  never  been  tam 
pered  with  stood  him  in  good  stead.  Erelong 
his  wonted  strength  returned,  and  he  stood  forth 
again,  vigorous  as  if  the  wing  of  Death  had  never 
waved  over  him. 

Lilian's  watch  was  over.  Her  home  with  im 
patient  voice  demanded  her.  She  must  return. 
And  she  returned,  and  all  things  were  as  they 
were  before,  save  that  a  tone  of  unconscious  re 
spect  deepened  the  affection  around  her,  and  that 
her  grandmother  from  that  time  forward  fre 
quently  declared  that  Lilian  was  so  unlike  other 


LILIAN.  35 

children  that  it  frightened  her.  —  She  was  afraid 
the  child  was  too  good  to  live. 

Little  Lilian,  with  the  fiery  vehemence  hiding 
in  the  deep  places  of  her  heart,  —  like  a  mine  of 
gunpowder  under  a  flowery  bank,  —  too  good  to 
live ! 

Take  courage,  grandmamma.  A  very  human 
little  child  it  is.  No  angel  at  all. 


VI. 

"  You  will  find  Lilian  in  the  garden."  Mr. 
Clinton  came  down  the  steps  of  the  pillared  porch 
into  the  great,  old-fashioned  garden.  It  was  a 
pleasant  place.  The  high  stone  wall  that  closed 
it  in  was  hidden  from  view  by  a  belt  of  heavy 
firs  and  light  forest-trees,  among  whose  branches 
the  birds  sang,  and  the  little  red  squirrels  frisked 
in  all  the  security  of  their  native  woods.  Tall 
Norway  pines  and  graceful  hemlocks,  trailing 
their  sweeping  branches  on  the  smooth  green 
sod,  towered  from  the  broad  terraces ;  while 
here  and  there  the  mountain  laurel  with  its 
white,  ruby-touched  clusters,  the  rosy  flush  of 
the  flowering  almond,  and  the  delicate,  snowy 


36  LILIAN. 

blossoms  of  the  fragrant  syringa,  perfumed  the 
air. 

Descending  the  stone  steps  of  the  terraces,  he 
passed  the  sunny  espaliers  thick  hung  with  crim 
son  peaches,  purple  nectarines,  and  golden  pears, 
where  from  overarching  trellises  the  waving  gar 
lands  of  the  luxuriant  vines  turned  their  silver 
linings  to  the  sunset  breeze. 

Turning  an  angle  formed  by  an  advancing 
clump  of  pines,  he  came  upon  the  painted  statue 
of  the  red  Indian,  springing  forth  from  his  am 
bush  in  act  to  strike  ;  grim  and  terrible  to  child 
ish  eyes,  and  startling  even  to  their  elders,  meet 
ing  him  unawares  ;  and  entered  the  flower-garden 
with  its  high,  carefully  clipped  borders  of  shin 
ing  box,  its  broad,  smoothly  gravelled  walks ;  and 
.  its  wsestk  of  summer  flowers.  There  was  no 
sound  save  the  chirping  of  the  fearless  little 
sparrows  that  hopped  before  him  in  the  walk, 
busily  gleaning  their  evening  meal,  and  the  faint 
lowing  of  the  cows  from  the  distant  pastures.  Mr. 
Clinton  looked  and  listened  in  vain  for  any  trace 
of  Lilian,  until  turning  into  a  side  path  he  at 
length  espied  her. 

At  the  extremity  of  the  shaded  alley  was  a 
white,  latticed  summer-house,  covered  with  dark 


LILIAN.  37 

green  climbing  plants.  On  the  step,  her  childish 
figure  relieved  against  the  deep  shadow  within, 
sat  Lilian,  her  head  thrown  back,  her  arm  resting 
around  Great  Heart's  neck,  who,  couched  behind 
her  on  the  floor  of  the  arbor,  his  fore-legs  hanging 
over  the  step,  lay,  lazily  blinking  in  sleepy  content. 

The  dreamy  look  on  the  child's  face  flashed  into 
a  glad  smile  as  she  sprang  to  meet  Mr.  Clinton, 
while  Great  Heart,  too  indolent  to  follow,  flapped 
his  tail  heavily  against  the  wooden  floor,  in  patron 
izing  welcome. 

"  What  was  my  little  girl  thinking  of?  "  asked 
Mr.  Clinton,  as  she  slipped  her  hand  into  his. 

"  I  wasn't  thinking,  I  was  feeling  how  beauti 
ful  it  all  is,"  she  answered,  drawing  him  towards 
the  alcoved  summer-house.  "  Come  and  sit  with 
me  here,  and  see  the  sunlight  on  the  grass  and 
trees.  I  think  this  is  the  pleasantest  part  of  all 
the  day.  Nothing  seems  dark  or  cold  that  I  think 
of  now  ;  even  when  I  think  of  dying,  I  don't 
feel  afraid.  Why  is  that?" 

"  Perhaps  because  you  know  that  the  sun  is 
going  to  sink  into  darkness  and  silence,  and  yet 
will  rise  again  to-morrow  morning,  glorious  as  on 
the  first  day,"  answered  Mr.  Clinton,  looking  ten 
derly  down  upon  the  sweet  face,  full  of  thought 


88  LILIAN. 

and  sentiment,  that  was  turned  so   trustingly  to 
his. 

"And  now,  Lilian,  I  have  something  to  tell 
you,"  he  continued. 

There  was  that  in  the  tone  of  his  voice  which 
arrested  instantly  her  whole  attention.  It  was  a 
tone  deep,  peculiar.  She  looked  at  him  inquir 
ingly.  His  serious  eyes  and  dark  face  were  light 
ed  with  a  new  expression. 

"  It  is  something  good,"  she  said.     "  Tell  me." 

"  I  am  going  to  be  married." 

Lilian  started  from  him  as  if  he  had  struck  her, 
—  stood  for  a  moment,  her  eyes,  dilated  with  pain, 
fixed  upon  him,  —  then,  without  one  word,  darted 
away. 

Grieved,  surprised,  Mr.  Clinton  retraced  his 
steps.  He  knew  the  child  so  well,  that  he  could 
easily  trace  her  sorrow  to  its  source.  "  The  poor 
little  thing  thinks  that  I  shall  love  her  less,"  he 
thought.  "  How  little  she  knows  me !  There 
would  be  no  use  in  trying  to  console  her  now. 
Later  she  will  find  out  her  mistake.  But  it  pains 
me." 

And  where  was  Lilian  the  while  her  best  friend 
was  thoughtfully  wending  his  way  homeward  be 
neath  the  spreading  branches  of  the  luxuriant 


LILIAN.  39 

elms  that  bordered  the  road-side  ?  In  a  vast,  un 
occupied  garret,  the  one  place  where  she  was  sure 
that  no  one  would  disturb  her,  Lilian,  lost  in  a 
maze  of  misery,  sat  on  the  floor.  "  Mr.  Clinton 
was  going  to  be  married ;  he  would  never  care  for 
her  any  more." 

The  red  sunlight  that  struck  upon  the  oaken 
beams  overhead  rose  higher,  grew  fainter,  and  dis 
appeared.  Black  shadows  gathered  in  the  remote 
corners,  crept  towards  her,  touched  her,  closed 
around  her,  still  she  did  not  move.  Daylight  and 
darkness  were  the  same  to  her,  drearily  treading 
the  aching  circle  of  her  inconsolable  thoughts. 
At  length  the  young  moon  appeared,  and,  through 
the  window  overhead,  looked  down  upon  her  from 
the  darkening  sky.  She  raised  her  head,  and  saw 
it.  Something  changed  the  current  of  her  thoughts. 
She  gazed  long  and  earnestly  upward.  Gradually 
the  piteous  look  left  her  face.  She  rose  slowly, 
and  quitted  her  hiding-place. 

Poor  little  Lilian ! 


VII.     • 

"Miss  LILIAN,  your  grandmother  wants  you 
to  come  down-stairs.     There's  company  wants  to 


40  LILIAN. 

see  you,"  said  Becky,  entering  Lilian's  room, — 
the  large,  sunny  room,  with  its  Brussels  carpet  of 
ancient  design,  whereon  gigantic  roses  and  sober- 
tinted  scrolls  mingled  in  inextricable  confusion; 
its  paper  of  the  date  of  the  Empire,  heavy  pilas 
ters  alternating  with  garlands  of  parti -colored 
flowers,  the  whole  bordered  with  a  strange  and 
incongruous  medley  of  golden  quivers,  sacrificial 
rams'  heads,  and  festoons  of  blue  ribbons ;  its  an 
tiquated  furniture,  dark  with  age,  brilliant  with 
constant  rubbing,  and  resplendent  with  rows  of 
lions'  heads,  grinning,  in  burnished  brass;  its 
ample  snow-white  draperies  ;  its  tall,  narrow  fram 
ed  mirror,  surmounted  by  a  small  funereal  urn, 
whence  depended  gilded  wreaths  of  flowers  (Lilian 
had  once  nearly  broken  her  neck  in  an  attempt, 
by  means  of  an  unsteady  scaffolding  of  chairs-  and 
footstools,  to  ascertain  the  mysterious  contents  of 
that  urn) ;  its  choice  old  engravings  of  the  Ma 
donna  of  Dresden  and  the  Last  Supper,  which  she 
contemplated  every  morning  from  her  pillow  with 
adoring  admiration  and  reverent  compassion;  — 
into  this  large,  sunny  room, — the  room  where 
Lilian  had  been  born,  —  Becky  entered  as  we 
have  said,  much  disturbing  her  little  mistress, 
who,  curled  up  in  the  deep-seated  embrasure  of 


LILIAN.  41 

the  window,  the  light  falling  in  flickering,  green 
ish-gold  gleams  upon  her  through  the  leaves  of 
the  great  horse-chestnut-tree  outside,  was  revelling 
in  the  wild  wonders  of  the  Arabian  Nights. 

"  I  wonder  why  the  company  always  want  to 
see  me  ! "  said  Lilian,  as  she  reluctantly  closed 
the  book  and  descended  from  her  nook.  "  I  am 
sure  I  don't  want  to  see  them !  The  gentlemen 
look  at  me  until  I  feel  ashamed,  and  the  ladies 
talk  about  my  clothes.  I  think  it  would  do  just 
as  well  to  send  in  a  dress  for  them  to  look  at.  I 
wish  grandmamma  would  think  so  too." 

"  P'raps  it  would  do  for  some  folks,"  replied 
Becky,  "  but  there's  somebody  there  to-day  who 
thinks  more  of  you  than  he  does  of  your  clothes. 
Yes,"  she  added,  as  Lilian  gave  a  sudden  start, 
"  it's  just  Mr.  Clinton  and  Mrs.  Clinton,  too.  I 
caught  a  sight  of  her  as  she  got  out  of  the  car 
riage,  and  came  up  the  steps.  She's  the  beauti- 
fullest  creature  I  ever  saw  in  all  my  days." 

With  lingering  steps  and  throbbing  heart,  Lilian 
descended  the  heavy  staircase,  paused  a  moment 
at  the  drawing-room  door,  then,  with  an  unsteady 
hand,  unclosed  it,  and  entered.  With  downcast 
eyes,  she  advanced  towards  Mr.  Clinton,  and  held 
out  her  hand.  He  took  it,  the  chill  little  hand ; 


42  LILIAN. 

its  trembling  touch  went  to  his  heart.  His  eyes 
followed  her  solicitously,  as,  reluctantly,  she  ap 
proached  and  stood  before  his  wife,  —  that  dreaded 
usurper,  who,  vulture-like,  had  swooped  down 
upon  her  peaceful  life  to  rob  her  of  its  happiness. 

"  Look  up,  Lilian,"  said  her  grandmother. 

She  looked  up,  and  saw,  as  in  a  vision,  a  seraph- 
like  face,  with  deep  blue  eyes  and  locks  of  paly 
gold,  bending  towards  her.  A  gentle  arm  drew 
her  nearer,  and  a  sweet  voice  whispered, — 

"  Will  you  not  try  to  love  me  a  little  ?  I  love 
you  already,  for  Mr.  Clinton  has  told  me  how 
much  he  loves  you,  and  I  love  all  that  he  loves, 
and  all  that  love  him." 

As  healing  balsam  on  a  poisoned  wound,  so  fell 
the  words,  gently  dropping  with  soothing  iteration 
of  the  soft  word,  love,  upon  the  child's  sore  heart. 
Timidly  she  fixed  her  eyes  upon  the  lovely  face 
before  her,  then  shyly  turned  them  towards  Mr. 
Clinton,  to  meet  a  smile,  a  look,  the  brightest,  the 
fondest,  that  had  ever  rested  upon  her.  It  was 
true !  He  loved  her  just  the  same  !  He  looked 
as  if  he  loved  her  even  more !  She  forgot  her 
jealous  fears,  her  silent  misery,  her  hidden  tears. 
A  flood  of  sunshine  from  within  overflowed  her. 
The  pallid  cheek  flushed,  the  heavy  eyes  lighted, 


LILIAN.  43 

the  relaxed  corners  of  the  mouth  dimpled,  the 
drooping  figure  rose  erect.  New  life,  like  new 
wine,  ran  through  every  vein.  Love  was  life  to 
Lilian. 

VIII. 

"  How  does  Lilian  like  my  wife  ?  "  asked  Mr. 
Clinton  on  the  next  day,  as  she  sat  beside  him 
—  she  was  too  tall  now  to  sit  on  his  knee  — in 
the  library. 

"  I  like  her  very  much,"  was  the  prompt  re 
ply  ;  "  she's  kind  and  she's  beautiful.  When  I 
dream  about  angels,  I  see  faces  just  like  hers, 
only  not  so  still.  Why  does  she  look  so  still 
even  when  she  smiles  ?  " 

Mr.  Clinton  paused  before  he  answered,  smooth 
ing  back  the  while  Lilian's  dark  hair  ;  —  it  was  a 
habit  he  still  retained.  "  I  will  tell  you,"  he 
said  at  last.  "  Mira's  father  was  a  selfish,  dis 
sipated  man.  Her  mother,  whom  she  loved  ex 
ceedingly,  was  an  invalid.  Partly  on  account 
of  her  mother's  health,  but  more  on  account  of 
her  father's  habits,  they  lived  abroad.  Mira 
never  had  any  fixed  home,  nor  any  playmates 
like  other  children.  Her  father  gambled,  and 
ran  through  the  greater  part  of  his  fortune. 


44  LILIAN. 

Mira  and  her  mother  underwent  many  priva 
tions.  She  was  the  only  nurse  her  mother  had. 
She  was  alone  with  her  when  she  died.  After 
her  mother's  death,  her  father  placed  her  in  a 
convent  in  Paris  to  finish  her  education.  She 
was  very  unhappy  there.  She  remained  there 
several  years.  At  length  her  father  took  her 
from  the  convent  and  brought  her  to  America. 
Two  months  afterwards  he  was  shot  in  a  duel.  — 
Now  you  know s  why  she  so  rarely  smiles,  and 
why  her  face  is  so  still.  You  must  help  me  to 
make  it  brighter,"  he  added,  as  Lilian's  eyes 
swam  in  tears. 

"  I  will  try,"  said  the  child.  "  I  will  love  her  so  !  " 
If  there  had  still  lurked  any  shade  of  jealousy 
in  Lilian's  mind,  this  conversation  would  have 
banished  it  effectually.  She  was  now  the  fellow- 
laborer  of  Mr.  Clinton  in  the  endeavor  to  restore 
gladness  to  that  fair,  gentle  creature,  from  whose 
heart  early  care  and  suffering  seemed  to  have 
driven  it  forever. 


IX. 

LILIAN  had  said  that  she  would  love  her ;  and 
yet,  after  many  months  of  constant  intercourse, 


LILIAN.  45 

the  feeling  which  she  cherished  towards  Mr. 
Clinton's  wife  could  scarcely  be  called  love, — 
it  partook  rather  of  the  nature  of  adoration. 

There  was  something  intangible  and  unreal 
about  the  beautiful  woman,  that  impressed  the 
child  with  a  vague  sense  of  the  supernatural. 
She  was  unlike  any  one  •  that  Lilian  had  ever 
seen.  Nothing  external  seemed  to  have  power 
to  affect  her.  She  appeared  devoid  of  human 
emotions.  No  passing  cloud  ruffled  the  unvary 
ing  calmness  of  her  brow,  no  mirthfulness  brought 
laughter  to  those  placid  lips.  Lilian  could  not 
comprehend  her.  She  had  seen  Mr.  Clinton  an 
gry.  Good  as  he  was,  she  had  marked  his  brow 
knit  and  his  eyes  flash  when  he  was  provoked. 
True,  on  those  occasions  he  never  spoke,  yet  she 
could  well  see  that  he  was  very  angry.  But 
Mira  appeared  inaccessible  to  any  personal  an 
noyance.  It  was  not  insensibility.  She  was 
full  of  tender  thought  and  compassion  for  others. 
No  tale  of  woe  petitioned  her  pitying  ear  in  vain. 
All  gentle  charities  found  her  their  willing  min- 
istrant.  She  lived  as  consecrated  to  the  service 
of  others,  yet  seemed  ever  far  from  them.  There 
was  the  lovely  form,  the  kindly  thought,  the  help 
ful  hand ;  but  her  innermost  soul  dwelt  apart,  dis- 


46  LILIAN. 

tant  as  a  star.  When  closest  to  her,  Lilian  felt 
that  Mira's  self  was  far  away.  As  from  infinite 
distance  her  calm  look  rested  upon  the  child,  as 
through  regions  of  celestial  space,  her  placid  voice 
reached  her  ears. 

Was  Mira  really  a  woman  like  other  women, 
so  Lilian  often  pondered,  only  far  more  beautiful 
and  good  ?  If  so,  how  was  it  that  she  always 
seemed  so  like  the  vision  of  a  woman. 

It  was  only  when  she  sang,  that  one  could  feel 
Mira's  actual,  undivided  presence.  When  she 
sang !  — 

Have  you  ever  turned  aside  from  the  glittering 
whirl  of  the  fashionable  promenade,  the  eddying 
rush  of  the  crowded  streets,  or  the  endless  line 
of  the  gilded  bazaars  of  some  great  foreign  city, 
and,  ascending  the  quiet  steps  and  pushing  aside 
the  softly  yielding  portal  of  some  Catholic  church, 
entered  its  aisles,  dim  with  misty  shadow,  lighted 
here  and  there  with  votive  lamps  ?  Have  you, 
overlooking  all  difference  of  creed,  feeling  only 
that  those  arounoj  adored  the  One  Great  Father, 
mingled  with  the  silent  worshippers,  thankful  for 
the  companionship  of  Faith  and  Prayer  in  a 
strange  land;  and  while  your  heart  melted,  and 
your  eyes  moistened  with  the  rush  of  solemn 


LILIAN.  47 

thought,  has  the  great  organ  rolled  its  mighty 
waves  of  sound  above  your  bended  head,  in  ma 
jestic  exultation,  fuller  and  fuller,  more  and  more 
glorious,  till  the  arches  echoed  and  the  overhang 
ing  vaults  trembled  in  unison  ?  Then  has  the 
chorus  risen,  mingling  with  the  pealing  bass  in 
many-voiced  supplication,  imploring,  beseeching 
for  mercy,  for  help,  for  pardon,  in  e^eea  more  ear-  ^***«- 
nest  entreaty  ?  Cleaving  its  gathered  fulness, 
have  you  heard  one  high,  sweet  voice  soaring  in 
celestial  purity,  higher  and  higher,  sweeter  and 
sweeter,  clearer  and  clearer,  till  it  seemed  to 
reach  the  very  gates  of  heaven,  while  you  lis 
tened  in  breathless  ecstasy,  your  whole  soul  sus 
pended  on  the  sound  ?  —  Such  a  voice  was  Mira's. 

With  clasped  hands  and  parted  lips,  Lilian 
would  sit  in  the  twilight,  —  it  was  then  Mira 
best  loved  to  sing,  —  hanging  on  that  voice  of 
unearthly  sweetness,  chanting  Geistliche  Lieder, 
while  the  flickering  firelight  played  in  flashes 
upon  Mira's  gilded  harp,  her  bending  figure,  and 
her  upturned,  transfigured  face. 

Sometimes  a  broader,  higher  gleam  would  show 
a  tall,  dark  figure  seated  in  the  shade,  his  eyes 
fixed  with  an  indefinable  expression  upon  the 
rapt,  unconscious  singer. 


48  LILIAN. 

Was  Mr.  Clinton  wholly  happy  ?  Did  that 
ethereal  shadow  satisfy  the  strong  yearning  of  his 
heart  ?  Could  that  lovely,  snow-like  image  fill  the 
young  husband's  arms  ? 

Such  questionings  as  these  never  entered  Lil 
ian's  young  mind ;  yet  when  she  saw  that  look, 
she  would  dimly  divine  the  presence  of  an  un 
spoken  pain,  and  stealing  softly  to  his  side,  she 
would  look  up  at  him,  her  dark  eyes  full  of  un 
utterable  affection ;  and  Mr.  Clinton's  heavy  brow 
would  relax,  and  his  compressed  lips  soften,  as  he 
met  that  loving,  mutely-eloquent  gaze. 

Oh,  wonderful  love  of  children  !  Best  balm 
after  the  love  of  God  !  Is  any  grief  so  dark  that 
those  holy  eyes  can  shed  no  light  upon  it ;  so 
deep  that  those  sweet,  innocent  voices  can  send 
no  comfort  to  it ;  so  hopeless  that  those  loving, 
earnest  hearts  can  bring  no  consolation  to  it  ? 
Little  angels  that  stand  at  the  entrance  of  our 
Valley  of  Humiliation,  and,  unknowing  them 
selves  of  the  message  they  bear,  tell  of  God's 
light  upon  the  mountain-tops,  his  glory  upon  the 
hills,  and  stretch  their  unspotted  hands  towards 
us,  bidding  us  be  of  good  cheer  ! 

One  evening  they  were  alone.  As  the  last 
strains  of  an  ancient  Catholic  vesper-hymn  vi- 


LILIAN.  49 

brated  on  the  air,  Mr.  Clinton  rose,  approached 
his  wife,  and  bending  over  her,  said  in  deep, 
troubled  tones, — 

"  Mira,  do  you  really  love  me  ?  " 

"  I  love  you,"  answered  her  gentle,  passion 
less  voice. 

"  With  your  whole  heart  ?  "  he  urged  in  deep 
er,  more  troubled  accents. 

"  I  love  God  only  with  my  whole  heart,"  re 
plied  the  sweet,  clear,  distant  sounds.  "  I  love 
you  next  to  Him." 

The  husband  answered  not.  He  turned  back 
and  threw  himself  down  on  the  sofa,  his  face 
turned  towards  the  wall,  while  a  hope  died  slowly, 
agonizingly,  within  him. 

"  You  are  very  pale,"  said  Mira,  as  at  the  end 
of  an  hour  he  rose  and  turned  his  face  towards 
her.  "  Can  I  do  nothing  for  you?  " 

A  faint,  sad  smile  crossed  his  lips  as  he  an 
swered  gently,  — - 

«  Nothing." 

X. 

"  I  SHALL  ride  to  town  this  morning,"  said 
Mr.  Clinton  as  he  laid  aside  his  review,  and 


50  LILIAN. 

( 

rising  from  his  easy-chair  beside  the  breakfast- 
table  with  its  service  of  old  Sevres,  drew  aside 
the  damask  curtain  and  looked  out  over  the 
snowy  landscape,  glittering  in  the  morning  sun. 
He  had  grown  fond  of  those  long,  lonely  rides 
during  these  years  of  his  married  life. 

Mira,  who  sat  in  her  flowing  dress  of  pale  blue 
cashmere,  busy  with  some  delicate  white  embroid 
ery,  silently  rose,  left  the  room,  and  returned, 
bringing  in  her  arms  her  husband's  sable-lined 
coat  and  furred  gauntlets.  She  placed  them  be 
fore  the  blazing  fire,  and  advanced  to  his  side. 

"  I  fear  you  will  be  cold,"  she  said,  as  she 
looked  out  with  him  over  the  snow-clad  waste. 

"  I  do  not  feel  the  cold  without,"  he  answered, 
fixing  the  indefinable  look  upon  the  Madonna- 
like  face  beside  him. 

He  rang. 

O 

"  Bid  Rufus  saddle  Sylvia  and  bring  her  to 
the  door." 

The  sound  of  hoofs  was  soon  heard  upon  the 
gravel  without.  As  Mr.  Clinton  descended  the 
steps,  his  pretty  favorite  turned  her  head  com- 
plainingly  towards  him*  His  quick  eye  ran  over 
her  graceful  form  and  rested  on  her  knees.  They 
were  cut  and  swollen. 


LILIAN.  51 

"  What's  this  ?  "  he  exclaimed  angrily,  as  he 
stooped  to  examine  the  injury.  "  What's  this  ?  " 
he  repeated  still  more  angrily,  as  the  lad  who 
held  the  bridle  hesitated  to  reply.  "  Where's 
Rufus  ?  " 

"  Rufus  told  me  to  bring  her,  sir.  He  rode 
her  from  the  blacksmith's  last  night,  sir." 

"  Take  her  back  to  the  stable,  and  tell  Rufus 
to  come  here  to  me." 

As  the  lad  retreated  with  the  limping  mare, 
Mr.  Clinton  opened  his  pocket-book,  and  selected 
some  bank-notes.  He  looked  iip  at  the  noise  of 
heavily  approaching  steps.  A  dogged-looking 
groom  stood  before  him,  his  eyes  sullenly  averted. 
Mr.  Clinton  handed  him  the  folded  notes  and 
said,  coldly, — 

"  Here  are  your  wages,  Rufus.     You  may  go." 

The  gentleman  turned  and  ascended  the  gran 
ite  steps.  The  groom  stood  motionless  until  the 
hall-door  had  closed  upon  him,  then  raising  his 
head,  he  cast  after  his  master  a  vindictive  look, 
and  muttering  between  his  clinched  teeth  a  fear 
ful  oath,  he  also  turned  away. 

"  Rufus  has  broken  Sylvia's  knees.  I  have 
dismissed  him,"  said  Mr.  Clinton  throwing  down 


52  LILIAN. 

his  riding-whip  as  he  reentered  the  room  where 
Mira  still  stood  gazing  over  the  landscape. 

She  turned  with  a  look  of  sorrow  in  her  eyes. 

"  Have  you  dismissed  him  ?  I  am  sorry  for 
his  wife  and  child.  That  little,  sick  child  seems 
to  be  the  only  thing  he  cares  for."  And  she 
glanced  over  the  wide-spreading  snow-drifts. 

"  There  is  no  reason  that  they  should  suffer 
for  his  fault,"  her  husband  answered.  "  You  will 
see  that  they  are  provided  for.  I  shall  take  the 
train,  and  may  not  be  at  home  till  late.  Good- 

v 

Mr.  Clinton  was  not  apt  to  retrace  his  steps. 
Was  it  a  secret  presentiment  that  brought  him 
back  yet  once  more?  He  returned.  He  stood 
before  his  wife.  He  took  her  hands  in  his.  He 
gazed  long  and  fondly  on  the  transparent  purity 
of  her  face,  then  bent,  pressed  a  kiss  upon  "her 
forehead,  and  was  gone. 


XL 

THE  short,  brilliant  winter  day  was  drawing  to 
its  close.  Towards  the  distant  snow-clad  hills, 
the  large,  red  sun  was  slowly  declining.  Not  in 
summer  pomp  of  gold  and  purple,  with  crimson 


LILIAN.  53 

drapery  and  silver  sheen,  was  his  evening  pavilion 
hung  ;  but  in  soft  rose  and  tender  lilac,  as  not  to 
shame  the  white  shroud  of  the  buried  earth.  Still 
and  sharply  defined  against  the  pale  flush  of  the 
sky,  rose  the  dark  branches  of  the  little  wood 
beside  the  icy  river.  The  last  rays  touched  them 
here  and  there  with  gold,  —  faint,  lingering  touches. 
The  sun  dipped  low,  paused  as  for  one  last,  guar 
dian  look,  and  disappeared.  A  great  shadow  fell 
cold  and  chill  as  he  sank. 

What  moves  among  the  brushwood  by  the 
gleaming  railroad  track?  Is  it  man,  or  beast 
that  stirs  only  when  the  great  Eye  is  withdrawn  ? 
What  is  that  heavy,  rolling  sound  ?  * 

The  bushes  wave  more  wildly,  they  crack,  they 
break.  Forth  from  their  covert  looms  an  evil 
form, — a  man.  He  glares  cautiously  around,  then 
turns  to  his  task  again.  Heaving  with  strength 
amain,  he  pushes  before  him  a  large  trunk,  gray 
and  moss-grown.  Why  has  he  raised  it  from  its 
quiet  rest  in  the  peaceful  little  wood  ?  With  la 
boring  breath  and  straining  musdle,  he  drives  it 
before  him  —  good  God  !  —  towards  the  railroad 
track.  Prone  it  lies,  unconscious  messenger  of 
death,  where  the  iron  rails  cross  the  river,  deep, 
swift-rushing  under  the  ice. 


54  LILIAN. 

The  man  stands  erect.  The  sweat  pours  from 
his  knotted  brow  like  rain.  He  looks  down  the 
long,  level,  narrowing  lines,  and  shakes  his  clinch 
ed  fist  above  his  head.  He  once  more  glares 
around,  then  plunges  into  the  crackling  brush 
wood,  and  is  lost. 


XII. 

THE  sunset  light  had  faded  from  the  west.  The 
moon  hung  low  in  the  cold,  dark  sky,  shedding  a 
light,  ghastly  in  its  distinctness,  over  the  scene,  as 
two  muffled  figures  passed  silently  and  quickly 
towards  Rufus's  cottage. 

"  I  am  sorry  to  keep  you  out  after  sunset,"  said 
Mira's  voice,  anxiously.  "  I  had  no  idea  it  was  so 
late.  Do  you  feel  cold  ?  " 

"  Not  very,"  answered  Lilian ;  "  and  we  can 
warm  ourselves  at  the  cottage ;  how  cheerful  it 
looks.  Ah!" 

A  bright  light  suddenly  filled  the  windows  and 
flashed  out  upon"  the  snow.  A  child's  voice  came 
in  piercing  shrieks  through  the  icy  air.  They 
ran,  they  flew,  they  reached  the  cottage,  they 
burst  open  the  door. 

The  room  was  brighter  than  day,  lighted  by  a 


LILIAN.  55 

waving  column  of  flame,  —  its  base,  the  writhing 
body  of  a  child.  With  agonized  cries,  it  rushed 
towards  Mira,  its  little  arms  outstretched.  As  the 
fiery  death  approached  her,  she  tore  open  her 
heavy  cloak,  she  caught  the  shrieking  child  in  her 
arms,  closed  the  thick  folds  around  it,  and  threw 
herself  on  the  floor,  clasping  it  close;  while  Lil 
ian's  screams,  and  the  child's  smothered  cries,  rang 
through  the  suddenly  darkened  room. 

Bending  over  her  as  she  lay,  by  the  faint  fire 
light,  Lilian  could  see  Mira's  brow  contract,  her 
eyes  dilate,  her  lips  tightly  close,  while  the  breath 
came  heavily  through  the  expanded  nostrils.  The 
flames  had  caught  her  sleeves.  She  but  clasped 
the  child  the  closer. 

At  length, — it  seemed  an  age  to  Lilian,  —  Mira 
cautiously  unclosed  the  mantle.  All  was  dark 
beneath.  She  sprang  to  her  feet,  and  lifted  the 
moaning  child  on  the  bed. 

"  Snow,  Lilian,  quick,  quick,  snow  !  " 

She  covered  its  scorched  and  blistered  arms  and 
chest  with  soft,  cold  snow.  As  it  melted  from  the 
raging  burns,  she  renewed  it,  hanging  over  the 
tortured  little  creature  with  pitying  words  and 
tender  caresses. 

Gradually  the   soothing   application   lulled  the 


56  LILIAN. 

anguish  of  the  child.  Its  convulsive  movements 
ceased ;  the  contortion  of  pain  left  its  face ;  it 
moaned  no  longer,  but  lay  quite  still,  its  eyes 
closed. 

"  Bring  me  more  snow,"  whispered  Mira,  and 
then  run  to  my  house,  —  it  is  the  nearest,  —  and 
send  to  the  doctor  to  come  here  directly." 

"  Oh,  Mira,  your  arms ;  will  you  do  nothing 
for  your  arms  ?  "  said  Lilian,  as  she  looked  at  the 
tender  arms,  blotched  with  large,  white  blisters. 

"  Afterwards,"  answered  Mira ;  and  Lilian 
sped  away  on  her  mission. 

She  was  hardly  gone,  when  a  haggard,  fero 
cious  face  was  pressed  from  without  upon  the  win 
dow-pane.  Its  fierce  eyes  rested  upon  the  child. 
It  vanished  in  the  fast-falling  darkness,  and  Rufus 
abruptly  entered  the  room,  and  approached  the  bed. 

"  Do  not  be  frightened,  Rufus,"  said  his  mis 
tress'  gentle,  compassionate  voice.  "  She  is  not 
very  badly  burnt." 

"  The  lady  put  it  out,  father,"  said  the  child, 
unclosing  its  eyes,  and  faintly  smiling  on  the  man. 

Rufus  looked  at  Mrs.  Clinton.  Her  scorched 
and  dropping  dress,  her  blistered  arms,  told  him 
all.  He  staggered  for  a  moment,  then,  drawing 
in  his  breath  with  a  sharp,  hissing  sound,  he  smote 


LILIAN.  57 

heavily  upon  his  forehead,  and  fled  from  before 
that  mild  face,  as  Cain  from  the  accusing  sight  of 
God. 

With  bounds  like  those  of  some  hunted  animal, 
he  sprang  towards  the  little  wood  beside  the  river. 
With  superhuman  speed  he  rushed.  He  de 
voured  the  ground.  The  ominous  shriek  of  the 
fast -coming  engine  sounded  each  instant  in  his 
ears.  The  darkness  looked  blood-red  to  his  eyes. 
Was  he  too  late !  His  hell  had  begun.  Remorse 
clutched  him,  tiger-like.  He  would  have  roared 
like  the  wild  beast  whose  speed  he  had  borrowed, 
but  his  dry  throat  and  parched  tongue  refused 
utterance  to  sound.  He  gained  the  railroad.  He 
bounded  along  the  long,  level,  narrowing  lines. 
Was  that  the  red  light  far  before  him?  Was 
that  the  fateful  shriek  ?  Was  he  indeed  too  late  ? 


XIII. 

MIRA  sat  long  beside  the  child,  from  time  to 
time  pondering  Rufus's  wild  look,  strange  man 
ner,  and  hurried  flight !  Her  arms  began  to  be 
intensely  painful.  How  long  the  doctor  was  in 
coming !  And  Lilian,  why  did  she  not  return  ? 
The  child's  mother,  where  could  she  be? 


58  LILIAN. 

At  length,  Lilian  appeared,  deathly  pale. 

"  I  have  sent  for  the  doctor,  and  brought  Becky 
to  take  care  of  the  child  till  its  mother  returns. 
You  must  come  home  now,  Mira,"  she  said.  Her 
teeth  chattered  as  she  spoke.  Becky  stood  behind 
her  young  mistress,  silently,  in  the  shadow.  With 
an  authority  in  her  manner  Mira  had  never  seen 
before,  Lilian  wrapt  her  in  the  coverings  that 
Becky  had  brought,  placed  her  arm  around  her, 
and  led  her  forth.  Neither  spoke,  save  when 
Mira  once  breathed,  "Thank  God!"  Lilian 
shivered,  and  her  teeth  again  chattered,  as  she 
caught  the  words. 

They  reached  the  house.  The  hall-door  stood 
open.  No  servants  were  to  be  seen.  Lilian  opened 
the  door  of  the  sitting-room.  A  fire  blazed  upon 
the  hearth.  There  was  no  other  light.  Seating 
Mira  on  the  sofa,  she  vanished  and  returned, 
bringing  bandages,  liniments,  and  all  the  house 
afforded.  Without  a  word,  she  bound  up  Mira's 
arms,  then  seated  herself  beside  her.  Mira  took 
notice  of  nothing.  She  was  absorbed  in  her  own 
thoughts,  —  grateful,  adoring  thoughts,  —  as  Lilian, 
with  a  sharp  pang,  saw  in  the  upward  glance  of 
the  fervent  blue  eye,  and  the  tremulous  quiver  of 
the  parted  lips. 


LILIAN.  59 

At  length,  a  rapid  foot  ascended  the  steps.  The 
hall-door  was  flung  open.  Lilian  started  to  her 
feet,  and  stood  rigid,  expectant,  her  eyes  fixed 
upon  the  door.  It  opened,  and  Mr.  Clinton,  his 
dress  torn,  dripping,  and  dark  stained,  his  face 
white  as  that  of  a  man  who  has  seen  Death  face 
to  face,  stood  in  the  door-way. 

With  a  quick  cry,  Mira  sprang  towards  him, 
while  Lilian,  with  dry,  gasping  sobs,  sank  back 
into  a  chair. 

XIV. 

THE  early  rays  of  the  morning  sun  fell  on  the 
little  wood  and  the  icy  river.  Was  that  the  peace 
ful  little  wood,  and  the  smooth,  ice-bound  river, 
that  wood  of  Desolation,  that  river  of  Death ! 

The  snowy  banks  were  trampled  thick  with 
marks  of  hurrying  feet.  The  side  of  the  bridge 
was  wrenched  and  torn  away.  Below,  choking 
the  bed  of  the  rushing  river,  which  foamed  and 
boiled  around  them,  lay,  piled  in  inextricable  ruin, 
the  burnished  engine  and  gayly-painted  cars, — one 
crushed,  indistinguishable  mass, — with  broken  frag 
ments  hurled  wildly  here  and  there.  The  cheer 
ful  sunlight  played  over  them,  as  in  mockery ;  but 
it  fell  on  more  than  these.  Crimson  stains  were 


60  LILIAN. 

on  the  crushed  and  upheaved  ice,  and  broad  and 
deep-sunk  patches  on  the  snow.  Dread  witness 
against  the  murderer ;  —  innocent  blood  cried  to 
God  from  the  ground. 

Upon  the  summit  of  the  trampled  bank,  his 
eyes  fixed  immovably  below,  crouched  the  rough 
figure  of  a  man.  He  heard  not  approaching  steps. 
As  a  hand  was  laid  upon  his  shoulder,  he  started 
violently,  and  rose  to  his  feet.  Rufus  turned  his 
haggard  face  and  blood-shot  eyes  upon  his  master. 

"  I  am  glad  to  meet  you,  Rufus,"  said  Mr. 
Clinton.  "  I  have  been  already  at  your  cottage, 
and  am  happy  to  find  that  your  little  girl  is  doing 
well.  I  wished  to  tell  you  that  I  take  you  back 
into  my  service.  If  there  ever  be  any  occasion 
on  which  I  can  serve  you,  you  must  let  me  know. 
You  risked  your  life  to  save  ours  last  night,"  he 
added,  as  he  looked  at  the  broken  bridge  and 
piled-up  ruin.  "  I  can  never  repay  what  I  owe 
you;  "  and  the  gentleman  held  out  his  hand. 

As  his  master  spoke,  the  man's  face  grew  livid  ; 
a  ghastly  spasm  passed  over  it  as  he  ended.  He 
muttered  a  few  words  in  a  hoarse,  inarticulate 
voice,  then  turned  from  the  proffered  hand,  and 
hurriedly  entered  the  wood. 

"  Poor  fellow,"  said  Mr.  Clinton  to  himself,  "I 


LILIAN.  61 

should  not  have  expected  so  much  feeling  from 
him."  Then  dismissing  all  thought  of  Rufus 
from  his  mind,  he  reverently  uncovered  his  head, 
and,  holding  his  hat  before  his  face,  stood  for  some 
minutes  motionless. 

Some  hours  later,  Mr.  Clinton  sat  by  the  bed 
side  of  his  sleeping  wife.  The  light  came  care 
fully  shaded  into  the  luxurious  room,  and  hung 
back  from  the  heavily-curtained  bed,  as  fearing 
to  disturb  the  sleeper.  How  beautiful  she  looked ! 
Her  golden  hair  had  escaped  from  her  muslin  cap, 
and  fell  around  her  transparent  face,  pure  in  its 
pathetic  beauty  as  that  of  an  angel.  Her  hus 
band  sat  and  watched  her. 

A  contraction  disturbed  the  placid  brow;  her 
lips  worked  uneasily;  she  moaned.  Suddenly, 
with  an  affrighted  cry,  she  started  from  her  pillow, 
her  blue  eyes  staring  wide  in.  terror. 

"  I  dreamed  I  stood  on  the  bank  of  the  little 
river  below  the  bridge.  A  man,  whose  face  I  did 
not  see,  was  beside  me.  There  was  no  more 
water.  The  river  ran  blood.  As  I  looked  under 
the  bridge,  it  began  to  heave,  and  I  saw  stiff, 
white  hands  pointing  upwards  out  of  the  blood. 
Then  dead  bodies,  in  long,  white  shrouds,  rose 


62  LILIAN. 

slowly,  each  pointing  one  hand  upward.  They 
glided  down  the  river,  till  they  were  opposite  the 
man.  Then  they  stood  still.  They  fixed  their 
eyes  upon  him.  They  raised  their  right  hands, 
and  pointed  at  him.  They  opened  their  mouths, 
as  calling  him,  but  I  heard  no  sound.  Then  I 
perceived  that  the  river  of  blood  was  swelling.  It 
rose  to  the  top  of  the  bank,  and  the  dead  bodies 
began  to  move  towards  the  man,  as  if  to  lay  hold 
upon  him.  Then  I  screamed,  and  awoke." 

"  It  was  a  frightful  dream,"  said  her  husband. 
"  Do  not  think  of  it.  Let  me  tell  you  something 
that  will  please  you.  I  have  taken  Rufus  back. 
That  is  not  all  that  I  shall  do  for  him.  You  do 
not  know  that  he  risked  his  life  to  save  ours  last 
night.  He  came  rushing  along  the  track  to  warn 
us,  but  it  was  too  late." 

Mira's  lips  turned  white ;  her  eyes  closed ;  she 
sank  back  on  her  pillow. 

Mr.  Clinton,  alarmed,  hung  over  her  with  anx 
iously  proffered  help. 

"  Only  to  be  alone,"  she  breathed,  faintly ; 
"  only  to  be  alone  !  " 

As  the  door  closed,  she  opened  her  eyes,  full  of 
unutterable  horror.  Conviction  glared  before  her. 
She  knew  the  murderer.  His  life  was  forfeit  to 


LILIAN.  63 

the  laws.  Should  she  denounce  him  ?  Should  his 
blood  be  upon  her  head  ? 

She  wrung  her  hands.  Doubt  and  Dismay  laid 
hold  upon  her.  Horror  and  Compassion  wrestled 
within  her.  She  prayed  for  guidance.  She  prayed 
-in  vain.  A  thick  veil  fell  upon  her  mind.  The 
power  of  thought  seemed  leaving  her.  Monstrous 
images  of  possible  crime  possessed  her  imagina 
tion  ;  and  through  all  she  saw  close  before  her  the 
wolfish  face  that  had  glared  in  upon  her  from  the 
darkness  of  the  night  before.  She  pressed  her 
hands  before  her  eyes,  to  shut  out  the  sight.  She 
cried  with  a  bitter  cry  to  God  for  aid.  Then  calm 
came  upon  her,  and  she  heard,  as  it  were,  a  voice, 
saying,  "  Love  your  enemies ;  do  good  to  them 
that  hate  you,  and  pray  for  them  that  despitefully 
use  you  and  persecute  you." 

The  reaction  of  extreme  excitement  had  come. 
One  of  the  sacred  sentences  with  which  her  mem 
ory  was  filled  rose  uppermost,  borne  soothingly  in 
on  her  mind  by  one  of  the  mysterious  processes 
through  which  Nature  seeks  to  restore  our  mental 
equilibrium  when  she  sees  danger  in  its  longer 
disturbance. 

But  Mira  received  the  words  as  sent  from 
Heaven, —  the  pulseless  calm,  as  the  sign  and 
pledge  of  God's  guidance  and  blessing. 


64  LILIAN. 

She  knelt  devoutly,   and  promised,   as  in    His 
presence,  to  protect  the  murderer. 


XV. 

THE  snow  melted.  The  accusing  stains  sank 
into  the  unrevealing  bosom  of  the  earth.  Soft, 
tufted  grass,  with  white  anemones  and  purple 
violets,  replaced  the  trampled  tracks  of  hurrying 
feet.  The  river  rushed  free  under  the  bridge. 
The  little  wood  waved  as  peacefully  as  if  it  had 
never  echoed  to  the  groans  of  the  dying,  or  the 
wailing  of  the  living  above  the  dead.  All  death- 
ful  tokens  had  disappeared  from  that  tranquil  spot, 
seldom  visited,  save  by  that  man  who  steals  to 
wards  the  bank,  in  the  late  evening,  or  by  earli 
est  dawn,  and  listens,  and  peers  over  the  brink. 
Does  he  hear  aught,  save  the  rushing  of  the 
water?  Does  he  see  aught,  save  grass  and  wild 
flowers?  What  brings  him  there  alone? 

XVt. 

"  LILIAN,  come  in  here,"  said  Mr.  Clinton, 
opening  the  library  door,  as  he  heard  her  light 
step  in  the  hall. 

"  I  want  to  speak  to  you,"  he  continued,  as  he 


LILIAN.  65 

handed  her  to  a  chair,  but  without  sitting  down 
himself.  He  stood  leaning  against  the  mantel 
piece.  He  looked  careworn. 

"  How  does  Mira  seem  to  you  ? "  he  said  at 
length,  with  evident  effort. 

"  Not  very  well,"  answered  Lilian,  slowly. 

There  was  a  long  pause.  At  length,  he  spoke 
again,  — 

"  I  am  going  to  ask  you  to  do  me  a  great  favor. 
I  want  you  to  come  here  to  stay  with  us,  to  be 
continually  with  her.  You  are  intelligent  beyond 
your  years.  She  loves  you.  She  will  be  happier 
if  you  are  here.  He  paused  a  moment,  and  con 
tinued:  "You  have  seen  how  timid  she  has  be 
come." 

"  Yes,"  said  Lilian,  in  a  low  voice. 

"  Since  the  night  of  the  accident,  and  of  her 
efforts  to  save  that  child,  she  has  seemed  borne 
down  by  continual  terror.  She  gives  no  reason 
for  it.  Any  reference  to  it  distresses  her.  I  can 
not  understand  it.  The  physicians  can  throw  no 
light  upon  it.  The  shock  seems  to  have  destroyed 
her  nerves."  He  stopped,  and  groaned  aloud. 
"  Lilian,  I  fear  for  her  reason."  He  walked 
abruptly  to  the  window. 

The  young  girl  rose.     She  moved  a  few  steps 


66  LILIAN. 

toward  him,  then  stopped,  and  stood  waiting.  He 
returned  presently,  calm,  as  was  his  wont. 

"  I  knew  it  all,"  she  said ;  "  I  will  come."  She 
took  his  hand  in  both  of  hers,  and  looked  up  in 
his  face.  "  If  I  could  only  comfort  you  !  " 

Mr.  Clinton  stooped,  kissed  her  forehead  as 
when  she  was  a  child,  and  turned  hastily  away. 

From  that  hour,  Lilian  never  quitted  Mira's 
side.  She  received  her  as  a  trust  from  Mr.  Clin 
ton.  She  devoted  her  life  to  fulfilling  that  trust. 
She  read  to  her,  she  chatted  with  her,  she  sat 
silently  beside  her,  always  in  Mira's  sight.  She 
drew  back  the  curtains  everywhere,  and  let  broad 
floods  of  sunlight  into  the  rooms.  She  decked 

O 

them  with  flowers.  She  filled  '  the  windows  of 
Mira's  sitting-room  with  tropical  birds  of  gorgeous 
plumage  and  sweetest  song.  She  taught  Great 
Heart  to  couch  by  Mira's  side,  while  she  played  to 
her  grand,  soul-stirring,  strength-giving  harmonies. 
Her  fresh,  young  life  filled  the  overclouded  house 
with  a  new  atmosphere.  Mira  felt  its  influence. 
The  ever-watchful  care,  the  feminine  tact,  the 
gentle  gayety  that  surrounded  her,  insensibly  less 
ened  the  weight  of  her  horrible  secret.  Some 
times,  for  a  while,  she  would  forget  it.  The  look 


LILIAN.  67 

of  tension  in  her  eyes  relaxed.  Her  nervous  start 
became  less  frequent.  Her  apprehensive  lips  once 
more  closed  placidly.  Lilian  would  sometimes 
flatter  herself  that  the  mysterious  cloud  had  rolled 
away ;  but  again  Mira's  face  would  curdle  with 
horror,  her  cheeks  and  lips  turn  white,  her  hands 
grow  icy  cold.  Then  Lilian  would  silently  throw 
her  arms  around  her,  press  her  warm  cheek  to 
Mira's  quivering  lips,  and  hold  the  cold  hands  in 
hers.  As  the  agony  relaxed,  Mira  would  press 
Lilian  tightly  to  her,  as  thankful  for  human  com 
panionship,  and,  shivering,  bury  her  face  in  Lilian's 
neck.  Once  Lilian  had  said,  "  Tell  me,  Mira." 
But  Mira  had  suddenly  pushed  her  away,  exclaim 
ing,  with  unnatural  vehemence,  "  Don't  tempt 
me ! "  Then  breaking  into  hysterical  sobs,  she 
had  murmured,  "  Oh,  God,  help  me  to  hold  fast ! " 
What  could  this  terror  mean  ?  What  was  the 
frightful  mystery  that  was  thus  torturing  this  in 
nocent  creature,  —  killing  her  before  their  eyes  ? 

"  Go  into  the  garden,  Lilian,"  said  Mr.  Clinton, 
in  a  low  voice.  "  I  will  watch  by  her  till  you 
return.  You  begin  to  look  pale." 

And  taking  the  place  which  Lilian  yielded  to 
him,  he  sat  beside  the  sofa,  and  again  watched  his 


68  LILIAN. 

sleeping  wife,  —  lovely  still,  but  how  woe-worn, 
how  changed ! 

Lilian,  followed  by  the  patient  Great  Heart, 
walked  slowly  down  the  broad,  sunny  walk.  The 
air  was  filled  with  the  odors,  busy  with  the  mur 
muring  hum  of  spring.  She  noticed  not  these 
things.  Her  heart  was  heavy  within  her.  She 
saw  no  end  to  the  misery.  Vainly  she  strove 
once  more  to  unriddle  the  mystery. 

"  What  can  it  be  ?  "  burst  from  her  lips. 

A  stealthy  step  approached  her.  Great  Heart 
stopped  short,  and  growled.  She  looked  up,  and 
saw  Rufus.  His  cheeks  were  hollow,  his  eyes 
glittered. 

"  Did  you  call  me?  "  he  said,  peering  into  her 
face. 

"  No,"  answered  Lilian,  drawing  back. 

He  glanced  restlessly  around ;  then,  looking 
down  at  his  feet,  changed  his  place  uneasily. 
Lilian,  somewhat  startled,  moved  on. 

"  Take  care,"  he  exclaimed ;  "  you'll  tread  in 
that  spot!" 

"What  spot?  Where?"  asked  Lilian,  her 
heart  beginning  to  beat  fast. 

"  There,  just  before  you."  And  coming  close 
he  whispered,  "  ICs  blood!  " 


LILIAN.  69 

Lilian's  pulses  stopped.  Her  'knees  shook 
under  her.  —  He  was  mad  ! 

She  glanced  around  to  see  if  any  help  were  at 
hand.  She  saw  the  coachman  hurrying  up  the 
walk.  Rufus's  eyes  wandered  glittering  around. 
Suddenly  their  look  fixed,  was  concentrated  as 
on  some  invisible  object.  He  stretched  his  head 
forward,  as  if  listening  intently. 

"  Yes,  yes,  I'm  corning,"  he  whispered.  And 
with  long,  striding  leaps,  the  haunted  wretch 
sprang  away. 

"  Did  Rufus  speak  to  you,  Miss  ?  "  said  the 
coachman,  touching  his  hat  as  he  came  up  to 
where  Lilian,  violently  trembling,  stood  leaning 
against  a  tree. 

"  He  asked  me  if  I  had  called  him,  and  said 
that  there  was  blood  on  the  ground.  What  is 
it  ?  Is  he  mad  ?  " 

"  I'm  afraid  he  is,  Miss.  He's  been  queer  for 
some  weeks  ;  a  muttering  to  himself,  and  a  lis 
tening  as  if  he  heard  something  ;  and  this  morn 
ing  I  found  him  scouring  where  there  was  noth 
ing  to  scour,  and  whispering  that  he  couldn't  get 
up  the  spots.  But  I  must  be  after  him,  Miss,  or 
he'll  do  himself  or  somebody  else  a  mischief." 
And  again  touching  his  hat,  the  coachman  took 
the  direction  in  which  Rufus  had  fled. 


70  LILIAN. 

Mira  still  slept,  —  her  husband  still  watched  by 
her,  —  while  Lilian  sat  in  the  recessed  window, 
impatiently  waiting  to  speak  to  Mr.  Clinton,  yet 
not  daring  to  run  the  risk  of  disturbing  the 
sleeper. 

A  heavy  hurried  step  sounded  along  the  hall, 
and  a  knock  came  at  the  door.  Mr.  Clinton  rose 
and  went  out,  leaving  the  door  ajar.  Lilian 
started  up  and  listened  with  straining  ears.  She 
could  only  catch  a  few  words,  "bank,  —  river," 

—  then  the  voice  sank,  and  she  listened  in  vain 
till  it  rose  with  the  last,  —  "  his   throat  cut." 

Sick  and  faint  she  sat  down  again  as  Mr.  Clin 
ton  reentered  the  room.  Lightly  as  he  closed 
the  door,  the  sound  awoke  his  wife.  She  looked 
from  his  face  to  Lilian's. 

"  Something  has  happened  !  What  is  it !  Tell 
me,  oh  tell  me,"  she  prayed,  joining  her  hands  ; 

—  the  haunting  look  of  terror  in  her  eyes. 
Mr.  Clinton  approached  her. 

"  Yes,  something  has  happened  that  will  dis 
tress  you,"  he  said.  "  Rufus  is  dead." 

Mira  sprang  to  her  feet,  extended  wide  her 
arms. 

"  It  was  he  !  " 

As  the   hoarse  unnatural  accents  sounded  on 


LILIAN.  71 

their  startled  ears,  the  weight  she  sought  to  raise 
from  her  heart,  crushed  back  upon  her  brain. 
She  groaned  and  fell  heavily  forward  into  her 
husband's  arms. 


XVII. 

THE  house  on  the  hill  is  closed.  All  is  cold, 
cheerless  order  within.  Wander  through  the 
deserted  rooms,  —  you  will  find  no  sunlight,  no 
birds,  no  flowers  now.  Open  door  after  door,  — 
all  is  equally  chill,  formal,  and  silent,  no  sign  of 
life.  —  But  yes  I  Here  in  the  library  burns  a 
cheerful  fire.  In  the  great,  green,  easy-chair  sits 
a  slender  girl,  bending  over  a  heavy  volume,  in 
tent,  absorbed.  An  old  stag-hound  lies  stretched 
out  before  the  fire.  His  feet  move,  keeping  time 
to  his  sleeping  thoughts.  He  dreams  that  he  is 
young  again. 

The  light  begins  to  fade.  The  girl  lays  down 
the  heavy  volume.  She  rises,  goes  to  the  win 
dow  and  looks  out. 

Autumn  is  passing  into  winter.  Its  gorgeous 
tapestry  has  fallen  from  the  trees.  The  scarlet 
maple  no  longer  blazes  beside  the  golden  walnut. 
The  dark-red  foliage  of  the  oak  lies  withering  on 


72  LILIAN. 

the  ground.  The  sky  is  drear.  Quick,  eddying 
gusts  of  wind  drive  the  dry  leaves  before  them 
down  the  hill. 

"  November,  December,  January,  February, 
March,  April,  May,  —  seven  months  before  I 
see  them  again." 

She  replaces  the  book  on  the  shelf,  sighs  as 
she  looks  around  her,  prepares  for  her  homeward 
walk,  rouses  the  reluctantly  awakening,  slowly 
stretching  dog,  and  wends  her  way  down  the 
hill,  past  the  gray  little  church  and  quiet  grave 
yard,  towards  her  home. 


XVIII. 

"  OH  for  heaven's  sake,  ma'am,  come  quick," 
cried  Becky,  bursting  into  her  mistress's  room. 
"  Come  quick  to  Miss  Lilian,  something's  the 
matter !  " 

And  followed  by  the  terrified  grandmother, 
she  hurried  back  to  where  Lilian  sat,  her  hands 
rigidly  grasping  a  newspaper,  her  throat  convul 
sively  working.  She  neither  stirred  nor  spoke 
in  answer  to  her  grandmother's  affrighted  excla 
mations. 

"  Oh,  read  it,  ma'am,  —  it's  something  in  the 


LILIAN.  78 

paper  that's  done  it,"  said  Becky,  bursting  into 
tears. 

No  sooner  was  the  paper  touched,  than,  as  if 
a  spell  had  been  broken,  Lilian  started  up  and 
fell  on  her  knees  in  an  agony  of  wild  sobs.  Her 
grandmother  read,  — 

"  Melancholy  shipwreck  and  loss  of  life.  We  re 
gret  to  learn  that  the  yacht  Nereid  was  run  down 
on  the  night  of  the  17th  ult.  off  the  Bay  of  Naples, 
by  the  Neapolitan  steamer  Ercolanes,  bound  from 
Naples  to  Marseilles.  All  on  board  the  yacht 
perished  with  the  exception  of  the  owner,  ^Mr. 
Clinton,  U.  S.  A.,  who  was  picked  up  severely 
injured. 


XIX. 

YEARS  passed,  —  those  momentous  years  which 
change  the  child  into  the  woman.  Where  now 
were  those  that  Lilian  loved  ?  Mira '  was  dead, 
drowned  in  the  bright  blue  sea.  The  sunny 
shades  of  Asia  had  closed  over  Mr.  Clinton.  He 
was  a  wanderer.  None  knew  when  he  would 
return.  The  vapid,  empty-minded  society  in 
which  her  grandmother  delighted  was  void  of 
interest  to  Lilian.  Her  heart,  unable  to  ex- 
7 


74  LILIAN. 

pand,  sent  its  vigor  to  her  intellect.  Books  be 
came  her  chosen  counsellors,  her  familiar  friends. 
Fleeing  the  monotonous  round  of  ceremonious 
civilities  which  absorbed  her  grandmother,  she 
took  refuge  in  the  deserted  library.  There,  with 
in  those  silent  walls,  eloquent  with  memories, 
the  happiest  hours  of  her  young  solitary  life  were 
spent. 

The  free  range  of  an  English  library  !  It  was 
a  trying  ordeal  for  a  young  girl's  mind.  The 
works  of  the  authors  whom  Mr.  Clinton  had 
chouen  for  her  once  exhausted,  she  was  left  to 
wander  unguided  amid  the  labyrinth. 

Through  the  luxuriant  garden  of  the  old  Eng 
lish  literature  she  strayed  unharmed,  shielded  by 
her  virgin  innocence  of  mind.  Crouching  among 
the  flowers,  lurking  beside  the  sweet  waters,  hiding 
in  the  pleasant  shades,  she  saw  many  a  toad,  many 
a  vile,  creeping  thing  ;  but  safe  in  the  absence  of 
the  Ithuriel  spear  of  consciousness,  she  passed  un 
heeding  on,  deeming  them  perchance  unlovely, 
but  unwitting  of  the  devil  hidden  within.  With 
white  feet  she  trod  unscathed  among  the  burning 
pages  of  the  authors  of  the  Regency.  With  pure 
eyes  she  looked  on  all,  and  it  was  pure. 

Her   mind  grew  and  gathered  strength.     Her 


LILIAN.  75 

taste  developed  and  ripened.  Her  sympathies 
widened  and  deepened.  Her  heart  long  forgot 
its  loneliness  in  the  richness  of  her  intellectual 
life. 

But  as  she  grew  into  the  grace  of  womanhood 
a  vague  melancholy  overshadowed  her.  The 
longing  for  a  greater  happiness  pursued  her. 
An  indescribable  atmosphere  of  sadness  hovered 
about  her,  whence  her  deep,  soft  eyes  looked  im 
ploringly  forth. 

What  did  she  seek?  What  did  she  wish? 
She  knew  not.  And  thus  she  sat  under  the 
old  oak-tree,  reading  the  Prologue  to  "  Faust," 
when  we  first  saw  her. 

She  had  not  perceived  the  approach  of  a  stran 
ger,  so  soft  was  the  grass  under  his  feet,  so  ab 
sorbing  was  the  poem.  It  was  only  when  he 
advanced  and  stood  before  her,  that  she  raised 
her  eyes.  With  a  glad  cry  she  started  up  and 
sprang  to  meet  him  with  outstretched  hands  and 
radiant  face. 

"  Mr.  Clinton  !  Oh,  I  am  so  glad  !  "  She 
stopped,  her  countenance  changed,  her  voice  sank. 
"  I  am  so  " 

A  rigid,  speech-forbidding  look  passed  over  the 
dark  face  before  her.  She  comprehended,  and 
was  silent. 


76  LILIAN. 

"  You  are  much  changed.  You  are  no  longer 
my  little  Lilian,"  he  said,  still  holding  her  hand, 
as  his  eye  travelled  observantly  over  the  low, 
broad  forehead,  shaded  by  bands  of  thick,  soft 
hair ;  the  large,  dark,  shadowy  eyes,  the  delicate 
outline  of  the  nose,  the  spirited  nostril  with  its 
warm  shadow,  the  rich,  purely  curved  lips  with 
their  look  of  sweet  reserve,  the  proud  chin,  the 
smooth  line  of  the  untinted  cheek,  the  indescrib 
able  grace  and  symmetry  of  early  womanhood  in 
her  figure. 

"  I  am  sorry,"   she  answered  regretfully. 

"  Sorry  I  Do  you  not  know  that  you  are 
much  more  beautiful  now  ?  " 

"  I  am  sorry  to  have  lost  the  face  that  you 
were  fond  of." 

Mr.  Clinton  smiled  on  the  lovely  face  that 
looked  up  pleadingly  at  him.  Her  heart  grew 
light.  He  might  deny  it,  but  she  felt  that  she 
was  still  his  little  Lilian. 

He  stooped  and  raised  the  book  that  she  had 
let  fall  in  rising.  He  looked  at  the  title.  He 
did  not  give  it  back. 

"  My  child,  this  is  no  book  for  you  to  read." 
And  he  fixed  his  eyes  inquiringly  upon  her.  Her 
look  met  his  frankly. 


LILIAN.  77 

"  Is  it  not  ?  I  found  it  in  the  library,  and  you 
know  that  I  have  no  one  "  —  She  paused. 

"  Yes,  I  know,"  he  responded  sadly,  and  he 
gazed  thoughtfully  upon  her  earnest  face.  — 
Might  he  not  find  here  the  occupation  his  ach 
ing  mind  needed  ?  " 

He  had  travelled  in  vain.  He  had  looked  upon 
the  Pyramids.  On  the  highest  summit  a  veiled 
form  stood  and  vanished  into  the  evening  sky. 
He  sought  the  great  Victoria  water,  far  in  the 
untrodden  Southern  wilds.  From  amid  the  roar 
of  the  falling  torrent,  rose  a  cry  as  of  a  woman 
drowning.  He  rested  under  the  ruins  of  East 
ern  temples.  Deep  blue  eyes  gazed  upon  him 
from  the  shade.  He  crossed  the  trackless  desert. 
Slender  footprints  marked  the  scorching  sands. 
He  had  returned,  hopeless  of  forgetfulness,  to 
bear  his  burden  as  best  he  might.  And  here 
stood  before  him  the  child  he  had  so  much  loved, 
grown  into  a  woman  more  lovely  still,  fatherless, 
motherless,  solitary,  —  for  he  knew  her  and  the 
influences  around  her.  He  felt  that,  as  when  a 
little  child,  she  was  still  very  lonely. 

Thus  they  stood,  hand  in  hand,  busied  with 
many  thoughts.  He  broke  the  silence. 

"  You  say  that  you  have  no  one.     You  shall 

7* 


78  LILIAN. 

be  my  little  Lilian,  if  you  like,  and  I  will  teach 
you. 

She  started  with  delight.  The  blood  rushed  to 
her  cheek,  her  eyes  filled  with  light. 

"  How  good  you  are!    How  happy  I  shall  be!" 


XX. 

A  NEW  life  opened  before  Lilian,  —  a  life  of 
gentle  contentment  and  lofty  thought.  Her  little 
blue  draperied  sitting-room,  with  its  long  Venetian 
window,  opening  on  the  flower-garden,  its  cottage 
pianoforte,  and  small  round  table,  became  to  her 
a  very  temple  of  happiness.  Mr.  Clinton's  pro 
tecting  care  and  quiet  affection  were  ever  present 
with  her.  His  intelligent  sympathy  doubled  the 
keenness  of  her  perceptions.  His  vigorous  mind 
moved,  a  pillar  of  strength  beside  her,  in  every 
arduous  pass.  He  led  her  to  the  highest,  purest 
sources  of  Art  and  Philosophy.  With  fresh, 
eager  lips,  she  drank  deep  of  Grecian  springs. 
The  divine  wisdom  of  Plato,  like  music  of  the 
spheres  made  audible,  —  the  subtle  analysis  of 
Aristotle,  keen  and  searching  as  a  two-edged 
sword,  —  the  wild  fancies  of  Pythagoras,  —  the 
sweet  wisdom  of  Epicurus,  —  the  lofty  heroism  of 


LILIAN.  79 

Zeno,  —  rolled  upon  her  soul  in  golden  harmonies 
of  antique  speech. 

The  many-voiced  chorus  in  accordant  unison, 
rising  and  falling  in  alternate  resounding  waves, — 
the  classic  majesty,  the  tender  grace,  the  compass 
ed  passion,  the  soul-compelling  pathos,  the  stern 
self-devotion  of  those  colossal  creations  which 
breathe  from  ancient  pages  the  same  deathless  life 
now  as  when  the  crowded  theatres  of  buried  cities 
first  rose  to  acclaim  their  birth, —  with  stately, 
superhuman  motion  passed  before  her.  Bending 
forward  with  hushed  lips  and  awed  look,  she  hung 
upon  his  voice,  as  in  deep  cadence  it  fell  upon  her 
rapt,  delighted  ear.  Unheard  the  music  of  the 
birds  without,  the  summer  rustling  of  the  leafy- 
trees,  the  song  of  the  mowers  faint  rising  from 
the  distant  fields,  she  listened,  and  her  heart  rose 
high ;  —  it  swelled  to  burst  the  limits  of  the  life 
around  her,  to  break  forth  into  noble  speech  and 
nobler  deeds.  The  enthusiasm  of  the  Good  and 
the  Beautiful  was  upon  her.  A  godlike  life  filled 
her  soul! 

And  he,  the  teacher,  how  did  he  look  upon  the 
beautiful  girl  whose  hidden  treasures  of  heart  and 
mind  were  laid  so  trustingly  open  to  his  attentive 
eye? 


80  LILIAN. 

She  was  still  to  him  his  little  Lilian,  —  nothing 
more. 

Not  only  in  the  sunny  morning  was  Mr.  Clin 
ton  there.  In  the  quiet,  starlight  evening,  when 
the  shaded  lamp  filled  the  softly -tinted  room 
with  dreamy  light,  through  the  wide-opened  win 
dow  resting  on  the  dark,  glistening  leaves,  and 
rich  odor-breathing  flowers  motionless  without,  he 
would  walk  forth,  —  down  the  slope  of  the  hill, 
through  the  hushed  woods,  beside  the  dark  ravine, 
across  the  sleeping  meadows,  —  to  Lilian's  garden 
and  her  quiet  room.  It  was  the  hour  she  gave  to 
music. 

Shading  his  face  from  even  the  shaded  lamp,  he 
would  sit,  while  the  deep,  unearthly  harmonies  of 
Beethoven,  the  sad,  far-reaching  fantasies  of  Cho 
pin,  the  massive  fugues  of  Bach,  the  enticing  melo 
dies  of  Mozart,  the  penetrating  sweetness  of  Men 
delssohn,  the  imploring  improvisations  of  Henselt, 
poured  forth  upon  the  night,  bearing  him  out  from 
the  haunting  pressure  of  his  grief,  into  that  great 
universe  of  higher  thought,  where  Time  becomes 
Eternity,  and  Space  is  lost  in  Infinity.  Then 
soothed,  refreshed,  he  would  again  pass  forth  into 
the  starlight,  and  regain  the  solitary  home,  where 


LILIAN.  81 

no  gentle  voice,  no  loving  eyes,  awaited  him,  to 
study  till  the  stars  grew  dim. 


XXL 

IT  was  earlier  than  his  wont.  Mr.  Clinton  sat 
on  the  rustic  seat  beneath  the  great  tree  which 
grew  below  Lilian's  garden.  A  deeper  sadness 
than  usual  oppressed  him.  He  had  come  to  seek 
companionship,  but,  with  the  caprice  of  a  sick 
heart,  he  had  turned  aside  when  his  feet  had  borne 
him  where  he  had  wished  to  be. 

A  deep,  sad  symphony  floated  through  the  air. 
A  sweet,  rich  voice  took  up  the  strain  — 

"  Einsam  wandelt  dein  Freund  im  Friihling's  Garten." 

Thrilling  through  the  twilight  stillness,  full  of 
eternal  longing,  of  deathless  pain,  — 

"  Adelaida  !  " 

Could  it  be  Lilian  !  He  rose  and  advanced  un 
seen  towards  the  window. 

The  song  of  resurrection  breathed  from  her  lips. 
Again,  but  in  immortal  hope,  in  sublimest  exulta 
tion,  — 

"  Adelaida  !  " 

Mr.  Clinton  leaned  against  the  window.  The 
memory  of  lost  hopes  pierced  him  through  and 


82  LILIAN. 

through.  She  had  given  it  voice,  and  the  expres 
sion  of  his  pain  had  rendered  it  all  but  unendur 
able. 

Lilian  turned  and  saw  his  face.  She  felt  all 
that  her  song  had  done.  She  bent  over  the  piano, 
and  her  tears  fell  slow  and  heavy  on  the  ivory 
keys. 

The  night  breeze  came  sweeping  over  the 
flowers.  It  raised,  as  with  loving  fingers,  the 
heavy  curls  from  his  brow ;  it  softly  caressed  his 
cheek ;  it  pressed  in  invisible  waves  upon  his  lips. 
It  seemed  to  rock  and  lull  his  pain. 

He  entered  the  room.  Lilian  dared  not  look 
up  at  the  manly  figure,  the  noble  face  before  her. 
He  took  her  hand. 

"  Good-night,  my  child." 

And  Lilian  found  herself  alone. 

Like  a  culprit,  on  the  next  morning,  she  waited 
for  his  coming. 

He  came, — a  shade  graver  than  usual,  perhaps; 
otherwise  the  same. 

And  the  evening  starlight  brought  him,  as  was 
his  wont.  He  seated  himself,  with  folded  arms 
and  head  erect,  as  ready  to  meet  a  foe. 

"  Sing  to  me,  Lilian,"  he  said. 


LILIAN.  83 

She  obeyed.  Her  tones  were  low  and  falter 
ing  at  first ;  but  gradually  the  music  bore  her  up, 
as  on  strong  wings,  above  the  consciousness  of  his 
presence.  Deep,  full,  steady,  rose  her  voice, 
swelling  into  grandeur,  softening  into  pathos. 
She  breathed  her  soul  forth  in  melody  rich  and 
rare. 

The  music  ceased.  As  one  who,  though  sorely 
wounded,  comes  victorious  from  a  conflict,  Mr. 
Clinton  met  Lilian's  half-frightened  glance.  She 
comprehended  what  had  passed  within  him.  She 
never  feared  to  sing  to  him  again. 


XXII. 

THE  spring  and  early  summer  were  past.  The 
scythe. of  the  mower  had  swept  over  the  pleasant 
fields,  —  their  wealth  of  green,  their  joy  of 
flowers, —  and  they  had  lain  sere  and  desolate. 
But  again  the  tender  grass  appeared,  and  blos 
soms,  richer,  sweeter  than  those  which  had  per 
ished,  sprang  from  their  bosom. 

And  a  second  spring,  a  second  summer,  came 
to  the  heart  of  Mr.  Clinton. 

Imperceptibly,  as  gentle  morning  changes  to 
puissant  noon,  softly  as  dewy  spring  waxes  to  fer. 


84  LILIAN. 

vent  summer,  did  the  affection  he  felt  for  the 
young  girl  grow  into  love.  It  grew  and  gathered 
strength,  as  in  enchanted  silence.  The  shadow  of 
his  grief  melted  away.  A  deeper  light  filled  his 
eyes,  a  sweeter  smile  played  around  his  lips,  a 
new  gladness  warmed  his  heart.  But  he  knew 
not  that  he  loved. 


XXIII. 

IT  was  mid-day.  Mr.  Clinton  sat  in  the  little 
blue-draperied  room.  Lilian,  on  a  low  seat  before 
the  open  window,  her  face  turned  towards  him, 
read  aloud. 

The  glory  of  summer  sunlight  without  rested 
upon  the  outlines  of  her  white  draped  figure,  and 
illumined  the  shadow  through  which  he  saw  her 
face. 

She  read  the  Tempest.  The  sweet,  persuasive 
music  of  her  voice  filled  the  room  with  soft  waves 
of  melody.  Gradually  Mr.  Clinton's  look,  dwell 
ing  with  gentle  interest  upon  her,  deepened,  con 
centrated.  A  trouble  passed  over  his  face.  The 
sweet  voice  flowed  on.  A  quick  tremble  ran 
through  his  powerful  frame.  The  voice  paused, 
—  then  soft,  searching,  thrilling  through  his 


LILIAN.  85 

awakening  soul,  Lilian's  lips  breathed  forth  Mi 
randa's  words, — 

"  Do  you  love  me  ?  " 

Mr.  Clinton  rose  and  took  the  book  from  Lil 
ian's  hands. 

"  It  is  enough,"  he  said,  in  a  low  voice. 

As  one  in  a  dream,  he  reached  his  own  house, 
and  threw  himself  down  to  think. 

"Do  you  love  me  ? "  The  sweet  voice  was 
ever  in  his  ears,  the  gentle  face  before  his  sight. 

Yes,  he  loved  her.  Like  that  rare  tropical 
flower  which  slowly  through  long  years  grows 
within  its  enfolding  leaflets,  then  in  one  instant 
bursts  into  its  rich,  luxuriant  perfection,  so  his 
unconscious,  silently  evolving  love,  at  those  words 
opened  upon  him.  It-  filled  his  whole  being,  —  it 
spread,  it  filled  the  universe. 

His  life  became  love  of  her.  He  loved  her 
with  a  love  vivid,  yearning,  intense,  soft  with  a 
tenderness,  glowing  with  a  passion  such  as  he  had 
never  known  before.  All  the  forces  of  his  nature, 
deepened  by  years  of  solitude  and  revery,  drew 
towards  her.  The  fountains  of  his  heart  were 
broken  up.  Its  affections  poured  forth  upon  her 
in  a  mighty  flood. 

Her  presence  dazzled  him.     He  closed  his  eyes 


86  LILIAN. 

not  to  see  her.  Her  breath  intoxicated  him.  He 
placed  space  between  them,  that  he  might  not 
suffocate.  He  sat  no  more  beside  her.  The  mere 
thought  of  touching  her  hand  made  him  shiver 
from  head  to  foot.  And  yet  the  possibility  of 
winning  her  never  entered  his  mind.  She,  the 
beautiful  girl  who  looked  up  to  him  as  to  a  father ! 
No.  It  was  but  the  exchange  of  one  suffering 
for  another.  He  was  used  to  pain.  He  could 
bear  it.  When  he  could  bear  it  no  longer,  he 
would  go.  Meantime  all  should  be  as  it  was 
before. 

Nothing  betrayed  to  Lilian  the  tumult  within 
Mr.  Clinton.  She  might  have  noticed,  perhaps, 
that  he  spoke  less  than  before ;  that  her  studies  in 
sensibly  assumed  a  severer  cast ;  that  he  was  graver, 
and  seemed  sometimes  absorbed  in  thought.  But 

o 

his  tone  was  as  gentle,  his  smile  as  kind  as  ever. 
It  was  some  cloud  of  memory  that  overshad 
owed  him.  She  wished  that  she  could  make  him 
forget.  She  wished  that  she  could  make  him 
happy. 

No  sign  told  her  that  her  voice  sent  the  blood 
coursing  through  his  veins,  that  her  smile  made 
his  senses  reel.  She  gathered  flowers  on  the 
brink  of  a  volcano,  and  joyed  in  the  soft  white 
cloud  that  hid  the  furnace  below. 


LILIAN.  87 

So  time  passed  on,  in  frank,  childlike  affection 
on  her  part,  in  absorbing  passion  on  his,  severely 
controlled  without,  —  the  fiercer  within. 


XXIV. 

IT  was  evening.  Lilian  had  been  singing  to 
Mr.  Clinton.  His  eye  had  dwelt  upon  her 
lovely  profile,  her  deep-set,  earnest  eyes,  her  lips 
so  soft,  so  full  of  sentiment,  the  delicate  sym 
metry,  the  luxuriant  grace  of  her  form,  until  he 
felt  that  her  beauty  would  drive  him  mad.  .  The 
time  had  come.  He  must  leave  her  ! 

He  approached  and  took  her  hands  in  his. 
He  spoke.  It  was  in  a  hoarse,  suppressed  tone 
that  she  had  never  heard  before. 

"  Lilian  —  I  am  going  away.  —  I  dare  not  stay. 
Farewell  I " 

Was  it  rapture  or  agony  that  ran  along  her 
every  vein,  that  thrilled  through  her  every  nerve 
at  his  touch  ?  His  look  compelled  hers.  She 
slowly  raised  her  head.  His  eyes  blazed  into 
her  own.  Her  heart  beat  in  heavy  shocks.  One 
instant !  —  He  was  gone !  —  He  had  taken  her 
soul. 


88  LILIAN. 

XXV. 

THE  gray  dawn  found  Lilian  sitting  in  her 
bedroom,  —  stunned,  bewildered,  wretched.  She 
knew  that  she  loved  Mr.  Clinton  ;  and  he  was 
gone.  He  did  not  wish  to  love  her,  did  not 
wish  her  to  love  him.  He  had  left  her.  —  She 
could  not  believe  in  her  own  misery.  It  could 
not  be  true.  It  must  be  some  frightful  dream. 
The  morning  would  come,  and  she  would  see  him 
again.  It  could  not  be  that  he  would  leave  her ! 

She  rose  and  threw  open  the  window  as  if  to 
dissipate  her  wretchedness.  Her  eye  rested  on 
an  angle  of  the  road.  As  she  looked  absently 
down,  she  heard  the  sound  of  rapidly  rolling 
wheels.  A  travelling-carriage  was  whirled  along. 
She  recognized  it.  It  was  his.  She  turned  back 
and  threw  herself  face  downward  across  her  bed. 
The  daylight  was  hateful  to  her.  She  lay  long 
in  a  dim  stupor  of  misery.  At  length  the  stir 
of  the  house  told  her  that  the  long  day  had  be 
gun.  She  arose,  changed  her  dress,  arranged 
her  hair,  and  descended  to  the  breakfast-room, 
drearily  thankful  that  her  grandmother's  imper 
fect  sight  would  not  suffice  to  read  the  expres 
sion  of  her  face. 


LILIAN.  89 

As  she  was  busy  with  the  urn,  a  servant  brought 
in  a  note  and  presented  it  to  her  grandmother. 
Lilian  felt  from  whom  it  came.  She  longed  to 
snatch  it  from  the-  silver  salver.  Her  grand 
mother  put  on  her  spectacles,  slowly  unfolded 
and  read  it,  then,  looking  at  Lilian,  said  in  her 
impassive  manner,  — 

"  A  note  from  Mr.  Clinton.  He  says  that  he 
is  suddenly  obliged  to  leave  home,  and  that  he  is 
uncertain  how  long  he  shall  be  gone." 

She  stopped.  Lilian  made  no  answer.  Her 
grandmother  continued,  — 

"  I  suppose  you'll  miss  him  for  a  while.  But 
on  the  whole,  though  he  certainly  was  very  kind 
to  you,  and  I  daresay  taught  you  a  great  deal, 
I'm  glad  he  has  gone,  for,  now  I  look  at  you, 
you  are  getting  as  pale  as  a  ghost ;  —  not  that 
you  ever  had  much  of  any  color,  but  you  didn't 
use  to  look  as  you  do  now.  And  you  must  look 
your  best  this  winter,  for  your  coming  out,  you 
know." 

And  her  grandmother  tore  up  the  note,  that 
Lilian  would  have  given  worlds  to  have  rescued, 
and  turned  it  into  little  white  allumettes. 


8* 


90  LILIAN. 

XXVI. 

A  FEVERISH  restlessness  laid  hold  upon  Lilian. 
One  controlling  desire  beset  her,  one  longing  hope 
pursued  her,  —  to  hear  something  of  him,  —  to 
know  something  of  him,  —  to  see  him  once  more. 

She  waited  impatiently  for  the  time  when  they 
should  be  established  in  the  city  for  the  season. 
She  would  be  more  apt  to  hear  of  him  there. 
She  knew  that  he  had  intended  to  spend  a  part 
of  the  winter  in  town.  Perhaps  he  would  still 
do  so.  She  should  meet  him  then.  To  see  him 
once  more  !  —  That  hope  bounded  her  horizon. 

An  element  of  coquetry  developed  itself  in  her 
mind.  His  approbation  had  become  so  dear  to 
her !  —  With  new-born  interest  she  studied  her 
face  in  the  mirror.  She  saw  that  she  was  beau 
tiful.  She  listened  attentively  to  her  grandmoth 
er's  projects  for  her  toilet.  Her  beauty  must  be 
arrayed  so  as  best  to  please  his  eye.  —  Her  heart 
wellnigh  failed  her  as  she  opened  her  piano-forte, 
but  her  hand  must  be  pliant,  her  voice  be  clear, 
that  she  might  delight  his  ear  when  they  met. 

Her  beauty  increased.  The  statue-like  purity 
of  her  cheek  wore  a  more  touching  sweetness , 
her  soft,  dark  eyes,  filled  with  unuttered  thoughts, 


LILIAN.  91 

were  deeper ;  —  her  lips  had  something  imploring 
in  their  sensitive  curves.  A  tremulous  atmosphere 
of  unsatisfied  unrest  surrounded  her,  like  the  quiv 
ering  around  a  star. 


XXY1I. 

THE  ground  was  frozen  beneath  her  feet,  the 
last  dry  leaves  had  been  swept  away  by  the  win 
ter  wind,  large  flakes  of  snow  fell  slowly  and  as 
at  random  from  the  sad,  gray  sky,  and  rested  on 
Lilian's  closely-robed  figure  as  she  passed  towards 
the  gray,  little  church  below  the  hill.  Into  the 
graveyard,  —  between  the  mossy  tombstones,  — 
she  stands  by  her  parents'  graves.  She  stands 
long,  unmindful  of  the  hurrying  flakes,  the  fro 
zen  ground,  the  biting  cold.  She  stoops.  She 
gathers  two  little  leaves  from  the  graves.  She 
presses  them  to  her  lips.  She  hides  them  in  her 
bosom.  She  passes  on  to  a  newer  grave,  a  grave 
empty  of  all  save  loving  memories.  Surrounded 
by  closely-planted  cypresses  as  if,  even  in  this 
secluded  spot,  to  shade  it  from  every  eye,  lies  a 
marble  slab, — 

"  SACRED   TO  THE  MEMORY  OF   MIRA, 

WIFE   OF   HARVEY   CLJNTON. 

AGED   21   YEARS." 


92  LILIAN. 

Long  she  gazed  on  the  pure,  white  stone.  The 
snow-flakes  fell  fast  and  faster.  They  lay  thick 
upon  the  slab.  They  spread  in  a  broad,  white 
sheet  over  it.  With  soft  touches  they  effaced 
the  inscription.  Then  Lilian  with  a  sense  of 
strange  relief,  turned  away. 

She  gathered  no  leaf  from  that  grave,  —  yet 
she  had  loved  Mira  well. 


XXVIII. 

THE  whirl  of  the  great  city  received  Lilian. 
Society  opened  its  arms  eagerly  to  her.  She  was 
new  !  She  was  beautiful !  She  sang  like  an  an 
gel  !  She  belonged  to  one  of  its  "  best  families !  " 
—  It  feted  her,  it  caressed  her,  it  flattered  her. 

Her  success  was  doubled  by  the  queenly  indif 
ference  of  her  bearing.  For  a  new  change  had 
come  over  Lilian.  She  looked  upon  the  world  as 
an  ambushed  foe.  She  dreaded  lest  some  chance 
eye  should  descry  her  secret,  some  careless  word 
gall  her  misery.  She  lived  as  one  who  feels 
that  at  any  moment  he  may  be  called  upon  to 
defend  his  life.  She  wrapt  herself  in  an  icy  re 
serve,  through  which  her  beauty  shone  like  the 
moon  through  a  frosty  sky.  Her  chilling  ret- 


LILIAN.  93 

icence  but  fanned  the  eagerness  of  her  admirers 
like  a  cold  wind  passing  over  fire.  There  was 
something  about  her  peculiarly  fascinating  to 
men.  Her  charms  of  person,  her  cultivation  of 
mind  and  manner,  her  sensitive  temperament,  and 
above  all,  her  inaccessibility,  irresistibly  attracted 
them  ;  —  they  pursued  her. 

The  admiration  that  she  excited,  tormented 
Lilian ;  her  soul  filled  with  one  all-absorbing  af 
fection.  To  her  there  was  but  one  man  in  the 
world.  All  others  were  as  painted,  moving  im 
ages.  Their  conversation  fatigued  her,  their  at 
tentions  displeased  her,  their  compliments  vexed 
her.  She  felt  their  declarations  as  an  insult  to 
her  love.  They  called  her  la  bella  Q*****& 
and  adored  her. 

It  was  only  towards  young  girls  that  she  thawed. 
To  them  she  was  invariably  gentle  and  affection 
ate.  She  looked  down. upon  their  rosy  group  as 
from  an  immeasurable  height  of  woe.  There  was 
a  touching  intonation  in  her  voice  when  she  ad 
dressed  them,  a  veiled  compassion  in  her  man 
ner.  The  sunlight  gladdened  them,  life  smiled 
before  them,  hope  delighted  them,  as  once  they 
had  done  her.  She  wondered  if  they  would  ever 
suffer  as  she  did.  She  pitied  them  for  the  possi- 


94  LILIAN. 

ble  grief  that  lay  before  them.  Her  face  wore  a 
pathetic  sweetness  when  she  looked  upon  them, 
as  if  they  had  been  innocent,  ill-fated  children. 

With  girlish  enthusiasm  they  admired  her. 
They  raved  about  her.  Cold  !  —  They  would 
not  hear  the  word.  She  was  the  loveliest,  sweet 
est  creature  in  the  world.  Haughty  !  —  They 
grew  indignant.  She  was  the  gentlest  of  cre 
ated  beings.  What  did  the  men  mean?  Did 
they  want  her  to  marry  them  all  ? 

They  surrounded  her  wherever  she  appeared 
with  their  smiling  eyes,  their  laughing  lips,  their 
delighted  greetings  ;  till  the  black  habits  assem 
bled  around  their  flower-crowned  group,  closed  in, 
broke  it,  and  encircled  Lilian,  pale,  beautiful,  and 
icy. 

And  the  rush  of  the  great  world  bore  her  ever 
on,  tasking  her  ear  to  catch  amid  its  busy  mur 
mur  an  echo  of  one  name ;  straining  her  eye  to 
seize  a  glimpse  among  the  hurrying  crowd,  of 
one  stately  figure,  one  noble  face.  Listening, 
searching  ever.  Listening,  searching  ever  in 
vain. 

Each  day  she  detested  more  the  life  she  led, 
the  position  she  held.  She  was  oppressed,  stifled. 
She  wearied  of  speech,  of  the  frivolous,  umnean- 


LILIAN.  95 

ing  conversation  in  which  she  was  compelled  to 
bear  her  part.  At  every  moment  to  speak,  and 
yet  to  be  dumb  forever ! 

But  there  were  moments  when  she  felt  snatched 
into  solitude,  when  she  dared  to  break  the  silence 
of  her  heart.  Safe  in  the  loneliness  of  music,  her 
pent-up  misery  overflowed  before  those  around 
her,  and  they  knew  it  not.  Pleading,  imploring, 
anguished,  rose  her  voice,  under  the  dazzling 
lamps,  amid  the  rare  exotics,  above  the  brilliant 
crowd  hanging  delighted  on  those  pathetic  tones. 
And  with  its  wonted  penetration  the  world  ad 
mired  her  power  as  an  actress.  "  What  an  ex 
quisite  voice  !  What  wonderful  expression  !  Who 
would  have  expected  so  much  feeling  from  her 
quiet,  cold  manner  !  What  a  prima  donna  she 
would  make  !  " 


XXIX. 

ONE  evening  she  sat  in  a  little  rose-colored 
boudoir.  From  the  adjoining  rooms  came  the 
murmur  of  gay  voices,  the  sound  of  music  and 
of  dancing  feet. 

Lilian  was  too  wretched  that  evening  to  act 
her  part.  She  could  not  dance.  She  could  not 


96  LILIAN. 

talk.  "  Should  she  never  see  him  again  !  "  She 
had  pleaded  headache,  and  her  pitying  hostess 
had  placed  her  in  the  little  rosy  boudoir,  and  for 
bidden  her  guests  to  intrude. 

On  a  table  near  her,  lay  books  of  engravings 
and  a  rich  album.  She  opened  it  half  uncon 
sciously.  Her  thoughts  had  wandered  to  another 
room,  blue  tinted,  far  away.  Mechanically  she 
turned  over  the  leaves  of  the  book  before  her. 
It  was  full  of  pencil  sketches,  hurried  but  spir 
ited,  —  sketches  of  Greece.  Suddenly  the  blood 
rushed  in  a  torrent  to  her  brow  and  cheek.  What 
was  on  the  opening  page  ?  What  did  she  see  ? 
His  face,  —  his  own,  —  his  very  own  !  She 
gazed  upon  it  as  the  shipwrecked  mariner  on 
land. 

"  Isn't  it  a  splendid  head  ?  "  said  a  gay  voice 
beside  her.  "  The  sketch  is  good  for  nothing. 
—  (I  wonder  why  my  mother  will  keep  that  book 
here  I )  It's  not  half  so  handsome  as  he  is.  He's 
a  superb  fellow,  —  Harvey  Clinton.  I  suppose 
you  don't  know  him,  he's  been  away  so  much. 
He's  one  of  my  best  friends.  He  saved  my  life 
there,  in  Greece.  I  met  him  in  Athens.  I 
asked  leave  to  join  him.  I  didn't  much  think  he 
wanted  me,  but  he  let  me  come.  It  was  just 


LILIAN.  97 

after  that  dreadful  accident ;  perhaps  you  may 
have  heard  of  it.  His  yacht  was  run  down  and 
his  wife  drowned.  He  hadn't  got  over  it  at  all. 
They  say  he  never  has.  —  But  I  was  saying 
he  saved  my  life.  I  fell  ill  up  in  the  moun 
tains  ;  —  worst  place  in  the  world  to  be  ill  in,  — 
miserable  huts,  —  people  all  robbers.  I  was  never 
so  ill  in  my  life.  At  the  end  of  the  first  day  I 
couldn't  stand.  So  provoking  too  !  —  Knocked 
all  his  plans  on  the  head.  —  Well,  —  he  took  care 
of  me  as  if  he  had  been  my  mother.  I  shouldn't 
have  believed  that  any  man  could  have  been  so 
tender.  Such  a  tall,  athletic  fellow  as  he  is  too. 
I  was  ill  enough,  but  he  brought  me  through. 
I'll  never  forget  it !  "  And  handsome  Charley 
Prevost's  happy  blue  eyes  filled  for  an  instant  with 
tears. 

"  What  a  fool  she'll  think  me  !  "  he  thought 
to  himself,  but  as  he  glanced  at  Lilian  his  appre 
hensions  vanished.  Her  head  was  gently  turned 
towards  him,  her  eyes  smiling,  her  lips  sweet, 
her  cheek  flushed. 

44  By  Jove,  what  a  beauty  she  is !  "  he  men 
tally  exclaimed  ;  and  handsome  Charley,  already 
smitten,  made  a  deep  plunge  forward  in  the  pro 
cess  of  falling  in  love. 


98  LILIAN. 

And  Lilian,  innocently,  unconsciously  lured 
him  on. 

He  loved  Mr.  Clinton !  He  became  to  her 
different  from  the  rest  of  the  men  around  her. 
Her  coldness  vanished.  She  welcomed  him  with 
a  smile  when  he  approached  her.  She  listened 
with  attentive  ear  when  he  talked  to  her,  wait 
ing  the  while  expectantly  for  some  reference  to 
him  she  loved.  She  allowed  him  to  wait  upon 
her,  to  follow  her.  She  thought  only  of  Mr. 
Clinton.  Handsome  Charley  thought  only  of 
her. 

The  world  observed,  commented,  and  approved. 
"  A  very  good  match  on  both  sides.  I  wonder 
when  it  will  come  out ! : 


XXX. 

IT  was  a  full  opera-night.  The  house  was 
crowded.  Every  one  was  there.  The  first  act 
had  ended  when  Lilian  and  her  grandmother  en 
tered  their  box.  The  murmur  which  always 
attends  the  entrance  of  the  reigning  belle  ran 
round  the  house.  Every  eye  was  turned  upon 
her,  as  she  stood,  robed  in  pale  green,  her  ermine 
cloak  falling  from  her  shoulders,  a  wreath  of  oak- 


LILIAN.  99 

leaves  in  her  braided  hair.  She  bent  her  head 
slightly  in  answer  to  the  salutations  of  those  near 
est,  took  her  seat,  and  turned  her  eyes  slowly, 
searchingly  around.  He  was  not  there. 

Look  again,  Lilian.  Far  back  in  the  shadow 
of  the  box  below  who  is  that  who  bends  his  eyes 
immovably  upon  you !  He  is  changed.  He 
looks  worn  and  stern,  but  do  you  not  know  him  ? 

He  watches  her  as  the  young  men  throng  to 
pay  their  court.  He  marks  with  secret  joy 
her  calm  indifference,  her  cold  reserve.  She 
cares  for  none  of  those  ! 

The  door  of  the  box  again  opens.  He  knows 
well  that  gay,  young  face.  It  is  his  old  travel 
ling-companion,  handsome,  good-natured  Charley 
Prevost.  Ah !  Lilian  knows  him  well  also ! 
Her  eyes  brighten,  she  smiles,  she  holds  out  her 
hand,  she  allows  him  to  take  the  seat  behind  her. 
She  listens  attentively  to  what  he  is  saying. 

Mr.  Clinton's  brow  knits,  his  lips  are  firmly 
compressed.  It  is  what  he  had  told  himself  over 
and  over  again,  would,  must  happen.  Lilian 
would  be  loved,  and  would  love.  It  was  nat 
ural,  it  was  right,  —  but  it  was  unendurable  ! 
As  fascinated  by  his  own  pain,  he  stood  and 
watched  them  till  he  could  bear  it  no  longer. 


100  LILIAN. 

He  w&s  turning  to  leave  the  box,  when  a  young 
man  entered  with  outstretched  hand  and  cordial 
greeting. 

"  'Pon  my  word,  Clinton,  I'm  delighted  to  see 
you  back.  I  shall  be  quite  a  lion  to-morrow  for 
having  been  the  first  to  shake  hands  with  you. 
I  hope  you  don't  mean  to  leave  town  soon. 
You're  come  just  as  the  season  is  pleasantest. 
Quantities  of  pretty  girls  this  year,  and  one  su 
perb  !  There  she  is  opposite,  Miss  DeKahn. 
Isn't  she  superb !  Cold  as  an  icicle  though ! 
We  call  her  la  bella  Q&accitrek.  If  you'll  be 
lieve  it,  she  won't  waltz,  or  polk,  or  dance  any 
of  those  dances !  But  in  spite  of  that,  she's  im 
mensely  admired.  She's  the  belle,  in  short.  —  It 
won't  do  to  say  a  word  about  her  haughty  ways 
before  the  girls,  though.  It  puts  them  in  a  rage. 
They  declare,  one  and  all,  that  she  is  the  gen 
tlest,  sweetest  creature  in  existence.  All  I  can 
say  is  that  we  men  don't  find  her  so.  I  thought 
she  had  no  more  heart  than  a  mill-stone,  but 
Charley  Prevost  lately  seems  to  have  found  the 
way  to  please  her.  He's  always  with  her.  Peo 
ple  say  they're  engaged.  I  suppose  it  will  be 
out  soon.  That's  he  behind  her  now.  You 
know  him.  —  By  George,  what  a  smile  !  I  don't 


LILIAN.  101 

wonder  Charley's  dead  in  love.  He's  wild  about 
her.  —  What,  you're  going  ?  " 

Mr.  Clinton  rose.  He  turned  one  instant  as 
the  opening  door  sent  the  blaze  of  the  gas-light 
without  full  on  his  face.  Handsome  Charley's 
eye  rested  upon  his  friend.  He  sprang  to  his 
feet. 

"  By  Jove  !  there's  Clinton  just  going.  I  must 
catch  him.  Good-night.  I  shall  bring  the  new 
photographs  to-morrow."  And  the  door  closed 
behind  him. 

A  heavy  blow  seemed  to  fall  upon  Lilian's  head 
as  he  spoke  and  hurried  from  the  box.  What! 
Mr.  Clinton  had  been  near  her,  opposite  her,  and 
she  had  not  seen  him !  Perhaps  he  was  coming 
to  speak  to  her.  —  Her  heart  shook  her  whole 
frame.  She  could  hardly  draw  her  breath.  She 
waited,  she  listened,  every  nerve  strained  to  its 
utmost.  The  moments  passed.  He  came  not. 
—  And  at  that  very  moment  he  was  somewhere. 
Charley  Prevost  was  talking  to  him,  looking  at 
him,  seeing  him.  —  And  she  !  —  bound  there  to 
her  seat,  with  the  lamps  glaring  before  her,  the 
din  of  the  orchestra  in  her  ears,  the  obtrusive 
voice  of  the  singer  vexing  her  sense  I  —  She 
could  not  endure  it,  —  she  could  not  stay.  She 


102  LILIAN. 

would  go.  She  would  hurry.  Perhaps  she  should 
pass  by  him  in  the  corridors.  Only  to  see  him ! 
—  to  see  him  once  more ! 

With  quick,  glancing  eye  and  feverish  step  she 
passed  along  the  half-deserted  passages,  void  of 
the  form  she  longed  to  look  on.  Down  the 
broad  staircase,  through  the  empty  hall,  into  her 
carriage.  —  She  had  looked  in  vain. 

The  world  seemed  an  aching  tomb.  She 
spoke  no  word.  She  reached  her  home,  her  own 
room,  and  walked  up  and  down  the  long  night 
through. 


XXXI. 

DAYLIGHT  was  streaming  through  the  half- 
opened  shutters  when  Lilian  entered  her  grand 
mother's  room,  and  stood  beside  the  bed.  The 
grandmother  started  as  she  caught  sight  of  her 
darling's  hard,  dry  eyes  and  parched  lips. 

"  Good  Heavens,  child,  what  is  the  matter : 
And  you  haven't  been  in  bed  all  night  f  " 

Lilian  took  her  grandmother's  hand  in  hers, 
knelt  besiae  the  bed,  and  looked  supplicatingly  in 
her  face. 

"  Grandmamma,  do  you  love  me  ?  "• 


LILIAN.  103 

"  Love  you,  child  !  I  love  you  better  than  any 
thing  in  all  the  world.  What  is  it,  my  darling  ? 
Tell  me,  tell  your  grandmother." 

"  Grandmamma,  take  me  home.  I  can't  stay 
here.  Take  me  home  at  once,  to-day,  —  only 
let  me  get  away  from  here,  —  take  me  home  ! " 

And  Lilian  buried  her  face  in  the  bedclothes 
and  sobbed,  but  shed  no  tears. 

"  Did  I  ever  refuse  you  anything,  my  pet,  my 
darling,  my  own  dear  child?"  said  the  poor  old 
lady,  quite  overcome  with  sympathy  for  Lilian's 
unaccountable  distress.  "  You  shall  go  whenever 
you  please,  you  shall  go  to-day  if  you  like ;  only 
don't  .sob  so,  my  darling,  don't, — it  breaks  my 
heart."  And  her  grandmother  drew  Lilian's  head 
towards  her  and  kissed  her  many  times. 

Lilian  had  never  loved  her  so  much  as  at  that 
moment. 

And  how  had  Mr.  Clinton  passed  that  night  ? 

Handsome  Charley  had  met  him  in  the  vesti 
bule,  had  accompanied  him  to  his  hotel,  had  sat 
with  him  till  two  in  the  morning. 

What  had  handsome  Charley  said  ?  "  You 
see,  Clinton,  I  want  to  tell  you  all  about  it. 
You're  the  only  one  I  can,  for  all  the  nice  fel- 


104  LILIAN. 

lows  in  our  set  are  in  love  with  her  themselves. 
And  I  know  you  won't  think  me  soft,  nor  call 
me  a  fool."  And  Charley  had  launched  out  into 
a  detail  of  all  Lilian's  perfections,  and  had  con 
fided  to  his  friend  all  his  love  for  her.  The 
young  man  was  thoroughly  in  earnest. 

"  I  tell  you,  Clinton,  it's  enough  to  make  a 
man  good,  just  to  look  at  her.  Sometimes  when 
I'm  talking  with  her,  she  fixes  her  eyes  upon  me, 
and  they  look  so  pure  that  I  feel  ready  to  shoot 
myself  when  I  remember  some  things  ;  —  and 
you  know  I've  not  been  half  so  fast  as  most 
of  the  fellows  here.  I  know  I  should  never  have 
a  wrong  thought  again,  if  she'd  only  marry  me. 
And,  do  you  know,  though  I  dare  say  I  seern  like 
a  conceited  ass  to  say  so,  I've  great  hopes  she 
will  !  One  thing's  certain  to  start  with,  —  she 
doesn't  care  for  any  one  else,  and  that's  a  great 
thing  you  know,  —  and  then  she  is  certainly 
kinder  to  me  than  she  is  to  any  of  the  rest.  You 
can't  imagine  how  her  manner  has  changed  dur 
ing  the  last  few  weeks.  She  used  to  seem  to 
think  it  as  much  of  a  bore  when  I  talked  to  her 
as  when  any  of  the  others  did,  and  now  she  smiles 
when  she  sees  me,  and  she  lets  me  talk  to  her  by 
the  hour  together.  She  shakes  hands  with  me, 


LILIAN.  105 

—  she  doesn't  do  that  to  any  other  man  in  town. 
It  looks  as  if  she  liked  me,  doesn't  it  ?  "  and  Mr. 
Clinton  was  obliged  to  confess  that  it  did. 

But  as  he  looked  at  the  handsome,  high-spir 
ited,  affectionate  youth,  he  thought  bitterly  how 
little  he  was  able  to  appreciate  the  woman  he 
loved.  He  thought  of  all  Lilian  was  and  of  all 
that  she  might  be.  Such  a  marriage  seemed  im 
possible.  It  was  like  assisting  at  the  preparations 
for  her  funeral. 

"  But  you  were  travelling  all  last  night.  You 
look  tired.  I  must  be  boring  you  to  death,"  said 
handsome  Charley  at  last,  and  he  took  his  leave. 

Mr.  Clinton  sat  down,  leaned  his  elbows  on 
the  table  and  buried  his  face  in  his  hands. 

He  had  seen  her  again,  more  beautiful  than 
ever.  The  sight  had  roused  his  emotions  to  their 
highest  pitch.  He  loved  her  to  desperation.  He, 
the*  strong,  self-governed  man  was  utterly  helpless 
before  this  passion.  She  must  belong  to  him  !  — 
She  must  be  his  !  —  Could  nothing  make  her 
love  him  !  —  He  smiled  in  derision  at  the  thought. 
He  was  almost  old  enough  to  be  her  father.  What 
chance  had  he  beside  young,  handsome  Charley ! 

He  had  been  weak  in  coming ;  —  his  brow 
flushed  as  he  accused  himself  of  weakness.  He 


106  LILIAN. 

would  see  her  no  more.  He  would  leave  the 
city  immediately.  He  would  go,  he  knew  not 
where,  —  anywhere  save  where  she  might  be. 
He  must  bear  it  as  he  could.  He  was  not  the 
only  sufferer  in  the  world.  God  knew  what  the 
torture  was.  He  who  had  made  man's  heart  so 
to  love  woman  could  measure  what  he  had  to 
endure.  There  must  be  some  good  in  it.  God 
knew.  And  the  end  must  come  ! 

And  his  thoughts  wandered  into  higher  regions 
among  the  eternal  hills,  bright  with  the  red  light 
of  a  fadeless  morning.  And  the  sharp  pangs 
faded,  and  the  fiery  torment  slackened,  and  with 
steadfast  eyes  he  looked  up  into  the  brightening 
sky,  and  saw  the  opening  day. 

Mr.  Clinton  threw  himself  down  and  slept, 
slept  long,  for  he  was  weary.  He  knew  not 
how  long,  when  handsome  Charley  burst  into* the 
room.  Was  that  handsome  Charley  ? 

The  bitterness  of  death  was  on  his  face.  He 
threw  his  hat  across  the  floor,  cast  himself  into  a 
chair,  and  covered  his  face  with  his  hands. 

"  Oh,  Clinton,  I'm  the  greatest  wretch  on 
earth.  —  She  won't  have  me  !  "  And  the  poor 
young  fellow  gave  a  despairing  sob.  "  I  don't 


LILIAN.  107 

know  what  to  think.  I  don't  know  what  to 
make  of  it.  I  felt  so  sure.  It's  all  so  strange. 
"  I  went  there  this  morning.  The  trunks  were 
standing  in  the  hall  all  packed.  I  asked  for  her. 
They  said  she  was  engaged.  I  sent  in  my  name, 
and  she  said  she  would  see  me.  I  went  into  the 
drawing-room,  and  there  she  stood,  all  white. 
She  said,  '  You  must  bid  me  good-by.  I  leave 
town  in  an  hour.'  Then  I  don't  know  what  I 
said  except  that  I  loved  her  and  begged  her  to 
marry  me.  She  trembled  all  over  and  sat  down 
as  if  she  couldn't  stand.  I  went  on  and  told  her 
how  I  loved  the  very  ground  under  her  feet,  and 
how  I  knew  she  could  make  me  anything  she 
chose ;  and  then  she  gave  a  great  choking  gasp 
and  burst  into  tears.  I  begged  her  to  answer 
me,  to  say  just  one  word,  and  she  looked  up  as 
if  she  were  begging  me  not  to  kill  her,  and  said, 
4  Oh,  don't  ask  me !  '  —  Then  I  knew  it  was  all 
over  with  me.  I  wished  I  were  dead,  and  I  said 
so.  Then  she  whispered  out  that  she  was  afraid 
she  had  been  very  much  to  blame,  that  God 
knew  she  did  not  mean  to  do  wrong  ;  and  then 
I  begged  her  to  say  that  I  might  have  some  hope. 
I  wrent  down  on  my  knees  to  her.  I  asked  her 
to  give  me  just  one  little  hope.  Then  she  looked 


108  LILIAN. 

at  me  in  a  way  that  I  shall  remember  to  my  dy 
ing  day,  and  said,  '  I  have  done  great  wrong.  I 
will  atone  so  far  as  I  can.  I  can  give  you  no 
hope.  I  love  another.'  She  turned  crimson,  then 
white.  She  looked  like  death.  —  Then  I  was 
going.  There  was  nothing  more  to  be  said.  She 
came  up  and  held  out  her  hand  and  asked  me  to 
forgive  her.  I  tried  to  bid  God  bless  her,  but  I 
couldn't  speak.  —  Then  I  went  out  and  have  been 
wandering  for  hours  till  I  came  here.  But.  I  can't 
stay.  I'm  too  wretched  to  stay  anywhere.  I 
came  to  you  for  I  knew  you'd  feel  for  me.  And 
I  wanted  to  tell  it  once.  Now  I  shall  never  speak 
her  name  again.  I'm  off  to  Europe  to-morrow. 
Good-by,  Clinton." 

He  wrung  his  hand  and  was  gone. 

Mr.  Clinton's  heart  seemed  beating  all  over 
him.  "  She  loved  another !  "  He  dared  not 
think  of  what  he  hoped.  She  had  left  the  city. 
He  would  follow  her.  He  looked  at  his  watch. 
He  had  slept  long.  It  was  too  late  to  take  the 
train.  He  would  drive  out.  He  could  reach  his 
house  that  night.  He  could  see  her  in  the  morn 
ing. 

An  hour  later  he  was  on  his  way. 


LILIAN.  109 

It  was  a  warm  evening  in  early  spring.  The 
bursting  leaf-buds  filled  the  air  with  sweetness. 
The  stars  were  so  bright  that  they  lighted  the 
whole  landscape.  An  indescribable  softness,  like 
hope  ripening  to  fruition,  filled  the  air.  The 
winter  was  over ;  the  spring  was  come.  A  still 
rapture  of  delight  breathed  around.  The  silent 
thanksgiving  of  Nature  reechoed  from  Mr.  Clin 
ton's  heart.  From  his  innermost  soul  he  thanked 
God. 

It  was  late  ere  he  reached  his  home,  but  he 
had  no  wish  to  sleep.  He  threw  open  the  glass 
doors  that  opened  on  the  lawn,  dismissed  the  ser 
vants,  and  sat  down  to  think.  Thought  was  now 
a  pleasure  too  precious  to  be  lost  in  sleep. 

All  was  still  when  on  his  ear  there  came  a 
sound,  the  bounding  footsteps  of  a  dog.  Up  the 
lawn  it  coursed  ;  into  the  room  it  dashed,  and 
Great  Heart  crouched  before  him  with  a  piteous 
whine.  He  ran  to  the  glass  door,  then  back  to 
Mr.  Clinton,  howling  all  the  while.  —  Had  harm 
come  to  Lilian  ! 

Mr.  Clinton  sprang  down  the  lawn  guided  by 
the  flying  hound,  towards  the  church,  into  the 
graveyard,  past  her  parents'  graves.  The  dog 
10 


110  LILIAN. 

disappeared  within   the   circle   of  cypresses   that 
shaded  Mira's  grave. 

There  on  the  marble  stone  lay  Lilian.  He 
lifted  her  in  his  arms.  She  was  insensible.  The 
great  drops  stood  on  his  brow.  He  felt  what  had 
brought  her  there.  It  was  love  of  him  that  had 
led  her  in  despair  to  the  grave  of  the  woman  he 
had  loved.  He  groaned  aloud  as  he  thought  what 
she  must  have  suffered  ere  the  power  of  endur 
ance  had  deserted  her.  He  clasped  her  to  his 
bosom.  He  called  her  by  her  name.  He  pressed 
warm  kisses  on  her  lips,  and  shivered  as  he  felt 
how  cold  they  were.  What  was  he  to  do  ?  He 
could  not  take  her  to  her  home.  It  was  too  far. 
He  must  carry  her  to  his  own.  Through  his  dis 
tress  darted  a  flash  of  joy. 


XXXII. 

LILIAN  knew  not  how  long  she  lay  insensible. 
She  slowly  unclosed  her  eyes.  Circling  clouds  of 
mist  surrounded  her.  She  saw  every  object  as  at 
immeasurable  distance.  An  aromatic  odor  filled 
the  air.  A  soft  light  fell  from  a  lamp  above  her. 
She  lay  as  in  a  pleasant  trance.  The  vapors  rolled 
by  degrees  away.  Objects  seemed  approaching 


LILIAN.  Ill 

her.  They  had  a  familiar  yet  half-forgotten  as 
pect.  Her  eyes  rested  on  a  veiled  picture,  then 
on  a  figure  before  her.  It  looked  like  Mr.  Clin 
ton.  But  where  was  she  ?  Had  she  not  gone 
and  knelt  by  Mira's  grave?  This  was  not  the 
gravestone.  She  lay  on  a  silken  couch.  Where 
was  she ! 

Her  senses  returned  in  full  vividness.  She  rec 
ognized  the  room,  —  the  room  wherein  she  had 
tended  Mr.  Clinton,  years  ago,  —  unseen  since 
then.  She  fixed  her  eyes  upon  the  figure  before 
her.  It  was  he  !  With  a  cry,  she  started  to  her 
feet.  She  wavered.  She  was  falling.  He  caught 
her  in  his  arms,  and  replaced  her  on  the  couch. 
Lilian  burst  into  tears.  She  wept  violently.  Mr. 
Clinton  walked  up  and  down  the  room,  in  silence, 
casting  agitated  glances  upon  her.  At  length  her 
tears  ceased.  He  approached  her.  He  bent  over 
her.  He  fixed  his  eyes  upon  hers,  with  a  long, 
deep  gaze.  It  needed  no  words.  She  knew  that 
he  loved  her.  That  long  mysterious  gaze  !  That 
silent  ecstasy !  He  bent  lower,  as  drawn  by  an 
invisible  force ;  cold  trembling  lips  were  pressed 
to  hers,  and  Mr.  Clinton  sank  on  his  knee,  while 
the  heavy  beating  of  his  heart  shook  the  couch 
whereon  she  lay. 


112  LILIAN. 

She  lay  in  peace.  Her  trouble  was  ended.  She 
had  entered  into  her  rest.  She  floated  on  a  golden 

O 

sea.     God  above  her, — her  lover  beside  her.     She 
was  at  peace. 

From  the  far  distance  of  the  ocean,  nearer 
and  nearer,  came  a  moaning  sound.  Closer  and 
closer  it  drew,  wailing  like  a  soul  in  pain.  A 
sudden  gust  shook  the  house,  the  casement  was 
burst  open,  and  the  chill  night  wind  swept  across 
the  room,  and  lifted  the  veil  that  hid  the  picture 
on  the  wall.  The  lamp  flared  fitfully,  as  Mira's 
sad  eyes  looked  down  upon  the  lovers.  The 
silent  lips  moved;  but  Lilian  and  Mr.  Clinton 
heard  nothing,  saw  nothing,  felt  nothing,  save 
that  they  loved  each  other  ;  and,  with  long,  sob 
bing  sighs,  slowly,  reluctantly,  the  wind  retreated 
as  it  came. 

Mr.  Clinton  rose  from  his  knee.  He  staggered. 
The  room  reeled  around  him.  He  passed  his 
hand  across  his  forehead.  With  a  powerful  effort, 
he  compelled  himself  to  be  calm. 

His  movement  broke  the  spell  that  had  bound 
Lilian.  She  half  rose,  and  said,  in  her  clear, 
steady  voice, — 

"  I  must  go." 


LILIAN.  113 

"  Yes,"  he  answered ;  but  you  are  not  strong 
enough  yet.  Wait." 

He  brought  her  some  rich  cordial. 

"  Drink." 

She  obeyed. 

He  lifted  her  from  the  couch.  He  placed  her 
upon  her  feet.  He  steadied  her  steps.  He  led 
her  to  the  glass  door,  and  they  passed  out  into  the 
night.  But  the  glory  which  needs  not  the  sun 
was  around  them ;  a  light  brighter  than  that  of 
day  rested  upon  them.  To  them  there  was  no 
more  night. 

XXXIII. 

And  the  registry  of  the  little  church  below  the 
hill  bore  a  new  record  :  — 

"  Married,  —  Harvey  Clinton  to  Lilian  De- 
Kahn." 

XXXIV. 

LILIAN  entered  the  library,  where  her  husband 
sat  reading.  He  laid  down  his  book,  and  smiled 
as  she  advanced.  She  seated  herself  on  his  knee. 
She  smoothed  his  cheek.  With  taper  fingers,  she 
raised  the  heavy  locks  from  his  brow. 

10* 


114  LILIAN.  . 

"  What  is  it,  Lilian,"  he  said. 

She  laid  her  hands  on  his  shoulders.  She  bent 
in  her  head,  and  fixed  her  eyes  earnestly  upon 
him. 

"  I  want  to  go  to  the  prairies.  I  am  too  happy 
to  live  in  houses.  I  want  to  be  where  the  earth 
is  broader,  the  sky  higher, — where  all  is  fresh  and 
free.  I  want  to  ride  wild  horses,  and  sleep  in  a 
tent.  I  can't  bear  any  longer  calls,  visiting,  dress 
ing,  dinner-parties,  and  all  those  things.  I  want 
to  be  in  the  far  West,  alone  with  you." 

Mr.  Clinton's  eyes  kindled.  Did  that  beautiful 
creature  wish  to  leave  civilization  for  those  savage 
wilds,  that  she  might  be  the  freer  to  love  him? 
He  caught  her  to  him,  and  kissed  her  passionately. 

"  We  will  go,"  he  said. 


XXXV. 

LILIAN  stood  beside  her  husband,  and  looked 
across  the  wilderness  of  troubled  waters  of  the 
mighty  flood. 

Fast  they  had  sped,  across  broad  inland  seas 
whence  the  eye  vainly  sought  the  shore ;  past 
deafening  torrents  thundering  from  sky  to  earth, 
shaking  the  solid  ground ;  over  endless  plains 


LILIAN.  115 

dotted  with  peaceful  herds ;  through  mushroom 
cities  sprung  up  in  one  night,  filled  with  restless 
crowds,  the  hum  of  traffic  and  the  din  of  trade ; 
along  wide-swelling  rivers  teeming  with  floating 
life ;  —  from  the  populous,  law-loving  East  to  the 
wild  luxuriant  West,  the  land  of  giant  growth  of 
Nature  and  man,  —  the  land  where  Luxury  and 
Barbarism  walk  side  by  side,  where  Peace  and 
Order  are  replaced  by  Violence  and  Lawless  Will. 
And  still  they  sped  onward  towards  the  still  wilder 
West,  to  the  home  of  the  Indian  and  the  bison,  — 
to  the  green  prairies,  rolling,  like  a  pathless  sea,  to 
break  at  the  foot  of  the  great  mountains. 


XXXVI. 

AND,  at  last,  the  long  journey  had  reached  its 
end.  Lilian  had  her  heart's  desire.  She  was 
alone  with  him.  Illimitable  as  his  love  the  green 
earth  stretched  before  her ;  deep  as  his  tenderness 
the  blue  sky  arched  above  her,  trembling  with  its 
own  intensity;  soft  as  his  protecting  care  the 
white  clouds  glided  by,  casting  broad  shadows  to 
shield  the  prairie  from  the  fervid  sun. 

Each  circling  hour  brought  its  own  delight, 
Glad  was  the  bright  day,  glad  the  quiet  night, 


116  LILIAN. 

When  rose  the  glorious  sun  in  pomp  of  pride, 
With  rosy  pennons  flaunting  far  and  wide, 
Chasing  the  timid  stars  that  shrank  away, 
And  cowered  out  of  sight  before  the  day ; 
Forth  from  her  snowy  tent  the  lady  came, 
Greeting,  with  upturned  brow,  the  Heart  of  Flame. 
On  her  fleet  steed  the  lover  placed  his  bride, 
And  o'er  the  glittering  prairie,  side  by  side, 
Dashing  apart  the  flowers,  bespecked  with  dew, 
Fast,  as  the  birds  that  soared  above,  they  flew ; 
Careering  o'er  the  bending,  rippling  grass, 
Startling  the  plover  and  the  grouse  they  pass. 
Wild  snort  the  steeds;  with  shrill  and  joyous  neigh, 
They  chase  their  shortening  shadows,  as  the  day 
Waxes  apace.    Then  o'er  the  boundless  plain, 
Rolling  beneath  the  fresh  breeze  like  the  main, 
Towards  the  distant,  snowy  tent  again, 
Their  rapid  way  they  take. 
When  the  white  sun  glares  fiercely  from  the  sky, 
And  fainting  in  the  heat  the  prairies  lie, 
Beneath  the  shade  of  overhanging  trees, 
Resting  her  husband's  head  upon  her  knees; 
Listening  the  ripple  of  the  little  stream, 
That  rises,  falls,  like  music  in  a  dream ; 
Culling  the  blossoms  springing  'neath  her  hand, 
Weaving  their  bright  hues  in  a  flowery  band ; 
Watching  the  bison  on  the  distant  lea, 
That  pass  like  dark  hulls  on  a  verdant  sea ; 
Noting  the  gorgeous  hues  and  outlines  strange, 
Of  the  wild  butterflies,  that  fearless  range, 
Flitting  around,  and  resting  on  her  head, 
With  quick  and  quivering  pulsation  spread 
Their  jewelled  wings,  —  she  sits,  nor  hardly  knows 
Whether  she  wakes  or  sleeps,  so  deep  is  that  repose. 


LILIAN.  117 

And  when  the  sun  sinks  burning  to  his  rest, 
Pressing  his  brow  into  the  cool,  fresh  breast 
Of  the  sweet  earth,  then  would  they  wander  forth, 
Their  only  guide  one  clear  star  in  the  north ; 
And,  far  from  sight  of  their  wild  hunter  guard, 
Would  send  their  souls  and  voices  heavenward, 
In  swelling  harmonies  of  soft  linked  song. 
Or,  as  with  woven  arms  they  paced  along, 
Beneath  the  large,  bright  stars,  their  speech  would  fall 
Upon  their  love,  that  boundless  All  in  All, 
That  swallowed  up  all  else.    Then  to  their  tent, 
With  many  a  lingering  pause,  their  steps  they  bent, 
Pausing  to  gaze  on  the  white  mist  that  rose 
Its  curtain  round  the  sleeping  plain  to  close ; 
Pausing  to  list  the  last,  faint,  lingering  note, 
That  died  on  the  still  air,  from  the  far  throat 
Of  some  half-sleeping  songster^   Towards  the  blaze 
Of  the  bright  watch-fire  they  come.    They  raise 
The  yielding  portal  of  their  dwelling  light. 
They  enter,  side  by  side.    The  loving  night 
Receives  them,  loving,  —  hides  them  from  our  sight. 


XXXVII. 

WEEK  followed  week,  but  brought  no  weari 
ness  to  Lilian.  She  knew  the  flight  of  time  only 
by  the  waxing  and  waning  of  the  moon,  as  it  rose, 
night  after  night,  the  only  moving  thing  in  those 
unbroken  solitudes.  Day  by  day  they  wandered 
on,  across  level  plains,  enamelled  with  countless 
flowers,  beautiful  and  new ;  over  prairies  rolling 


118  LILIAN. 

in  endless  waves  as  though  a  solid  ocean  had  been 
arrested  in  its  heaving;  through  savage  ravines, 
crowned  with  rough  battlements  of  rock  ;  beside 
gentle  rivers,  sweeping  under  wooded  banks  ;  past 
milk-white  torrents,  raving  down  their  stony 
beds ;  — farther  and  farther  from  the  haunts  of 
men  they  journeyed  on  in  fulness  of  content. 

They  had  come  to  a  rushing  stream,  clear  and 
pure,  bordered  by  leaning  willows  which  laid 
their  green  fingers  on  the  water  as  though  to  stay 
it  in  its  onward  course.  They  pitched  their  tent, 
for  the  horses'  heads  .were  drooping,  and  the  sun 
was  high  overhead.  The  hunters  departed  on 
their  daily  search  for  game.  Mr.  Clinton  and 
Lilian  remained  alone  beside  the  crystal  water. 
Its  ripples  seemed  to  beckon  them  onward  ;  its 
murmur  seemed  to  bid  them  follow.  They 
yielded  to  the  influence,  and  sauntered  under 
the  grateful  shade,  following  the  moving  cadence 
of  the  cool,  fast-flowing  river.  Pleasant  it  was 
to  walk  where  it  might  be  that  no  human  foot 
had  ever  trodden  before  ;  —  pleasant  to  listen  to 
the  song  of  the  river,  sung  to  their  ears  alone. 

They  passed  under  the  flickering  shadows  un 
til  they  came  to  where  the  banks  narrowed  and 


LILIAN.  119 

rose  abruptly.  A  great  willow  had  fallen  across 
the  stream,  and  rested  its  spreading  head  upon 
the  opposite  bank.  The  luring  song  had  ceased. 
The  water  fretted  and  foamed  below. 

"  Let  us  follow  the  river  no  longer,"  said 
Lilian. 

They  crossed  the  slippery  bridge.  Beyond 
grew  young  willows  and  alder  bushes.  Through 
the  close  branches  they  saw  the  gleaming  of  some 
large  white  object.  They  broke  their  way  through 
the  belt  of  thick  shrubs.  An  unexpected  sight 
met  their  eyes.  Before  them,  on  the  border  of 
the  prairie,  stood  one  solitary  Indian  lodge.  No 
sign  of  life  was  near  it ;  —  no  horse,  no  dog,  no 
fire.  The  white  bison  skins  which  covered  it 
were  carefully  secured  on  every  side  as  if  to  pre 
vent  entrance  or  egress.  They  came  near  and 
listened,  —  there  was  no  sound.  They  called,  — 
there  was  no  reply. 

Mr.  'Clinton  cut  the  cords  of  deer  sinew  that 
fastened  the  closely-guarded  entrance,  and  drew 
back  the  covering.  The  light  fell  dimly  within. 
A  cold  tremor  passed  over  Lilian.  It  was  the 
home  of  Death. 

Before  them,  on  a  low  bier,  lay  a  rigid  form, 
plumed,  painted,  decked  in  gayly  embroidered 


120  LILIAN. 

buffalo  robes ;  —  a  warrior  stricken  in  his  prime. 
The  tawny  brow  frowned  terrible  as  in  life. 
The  sinewy  arm  that  lay  across  his  breast  seemed 
ready  to  seize  the  tomahawk  that  lay  beside  his 
piled-up  saddle,  tent,  shield,  and  spear.  He  looked 
as  though  he  had  not  been  dead  an  hour. 

Awestruck,  Lilian  drew  near  and  gazed  upon 
the  lowering  face.  A  terrible  attraction  was  in 
it  that  chained  her  to  the  spot.  She  had  never 
before  looked  on  the  dead.  That  awful  moment 
when  we  first  make  acquaintance  with  what  all 
past  have  been,  all  to  come  shall  be,  was  upon 
her.  As  she  looked,  a  rush  of  thought  bore  her 
back  to  the  quiet  graveyard  beside  the  little 
church.  Again  she  stood  beside  two  long,  nar 
row,  grass-grown  graves.  Great  tears  gathered 
in  her  eyes  and  fell  heavily.  They  brought  her 
back.  She  was  again  in  the  lonely  lodge  on  the 
prairie,  the  dead  warrior's  face  before  her,  with 
closed  lids  looking  stonily  upwards  into  hers. 
And  that  was  Death  ?  She  saw  it,  —  she  would 
touch  it.  Slowly,  shrinkingly,  she  raised  her 
hand  and  laid  it  upon  the  frowning  brow.  A 
sudden  cry  escaped  her.  Was  it  the  chill  con 
tact  of  mortality  that  brought  it  from  her  lips  ? 

"  It  is  not  cold.    He  is  not  dead.    He  is  alive !  " 


LILIAN.  121 

Mr.  Clinton  tore  open  the  buffalo  robe  and 
bared  the  broad,  scarred  chest.  No  motion  was 
perceptible.  He  held  the  bright  blade  of  his 
hunting-knife  to  the  warrior's  lips.  It  grew 
dim. 

"  I  will  hurry  to  the  tent  for  cordials.  Are 
you  afraid  to  stay  here  ?  " 

"  I  will  stay." 

And  Mr.  Clinton  entered  the  thicket  that  lined 
the  river's  brink,  and  left  Lilian  alone  with  the 
living  dead. 

She  took  the  nerveless  hand  in  hers  and  chafed 
it  with  her  soft  palms.  She  touched  lightly  once 
again  the  stern  forehead.  The  life  of  the  war 
rior  grew  momently  more  precious  in  her  sight. 
She  thought  not  of  his  ferocious  life,  of  his  mur 
derous  past.  She  felt  only  that  he  was  a  human 
being,  —  a  fellow-man.  She  breathed  warm  breath 
upon  his  closed  eyelids.  She  chafed  again  his 
hands.  —  Suddenly  she  started  and  fixed  her  eyes 
intently  upon  his  face.  A  slight  shiver  passed 
over  the  prostrate  form,  another  and  another. 
Slowly  the  black  line  of  the  meeting  lids  un 
closed,  and  the  savage  looked  on  her. 

Terror  rushed  upon  her,  urging  her  to  fly. 
Charity,  more  powerful,  held  her  to  her  post. 
11 


122  LILIAN. 

With  trembling  touch  she  continued  to  chafe  the 
hand  she  held.  It  warmed  fast  in  hers. 

With  fascinated  look  she  watched  the  snake- 
like  eye  fixed  immovably  upon  her,  listening  the 
while  with  straining  ear  for  the  sound  of  her  hus 
band's  return.  A  rustling  in  the  willows,  —  a 
step  ;  it  was  he. 

"  Ha,  this  is  well,"  said  Mr.  Clinton  as  he  en 
tered  the  lodge  ;  and  he  looked  upon  Lilian  with 
his  rare,  brilliant  smile.  She  was  repaid. 

He  cut  apart  the  covering  of  the  lodge  and 
gave  admittance  to  the  light  and  air.  He  gave 
to  him  the  cordial  he  had  brought.  It  quickened 
the  flow  of  returning  life.  The  Indian  sat  up, 
struck  his  hands  together,  and  said  some  words 
in  harsh  guttural  tones. 

Mr.  Clinton  signed  his  ignorance.  The  war 
rior  stretched  forth  his  knotted  arm,  took  the 
white  hand,'  pressed  it  to  his  heart,  then  laid  it 
upon  his  head. 

The  willows  again  parted,  and  forth  from  their 
green  covert  strode  the  hunters.  With  practised 
eye  they  had  followed  the  trail  which  led  from 
the  deserted  camp.  As  their  look  fell  upon  the 
scene  before  them,  they  drew  back  and  spoke 
hurriedly  and  excitedly  to  one  another.  Lilian 
went  towards  them. 


LILIAN.  123 

"  We  found  this  Indian  left  as  dead.  He  was 
in  a  trance.  We  have  brought  him  to  life." 

"  It's  a  great  pity  you  did,  Madame,"  answered 
the  old  French  half-breed  who  was  the  chief  of 
the  party.  "  It's  Wild  Cat's  life  you've  been 
saving.  He's  the  blood-thirstiest  scoundrel  on 
the  prairies.  The  whites  did  him  a  harm  once : 
burned  his  lodge  with  his  squaw  in  it,  and  he's 
hunted  them  like  wild  beasts  ever  since.  He'd 
have  dashed  your  brains  out  with  his  tomahawk 
just  now,  if  he'd  been  strong  enough  to  hold  it. 
If  you'd  just  allow  me,  I'll  finish  him  this  minute, 
and  it  will  be  good  riddance  to  the  prairies."  And 
he  raised  his  rifle  menacingly. 

Lilian  threw  herself  before  him.  "  Put  down 
your  gun.  No  one  shall  harm  him,"  she  said 
authoritatively  ;  but  it  was  with  some  trepidation 
that  she  returned  to  her  husband's  side  and  re 
peated  what  she  had  just  heard. 

"  I  know  something  of  Indian  character,"  re 
plied  Mr.  Clinton.  "I  am  willing  to  trust  him, 
although  I  have  no  doubt  that  Baptiste's  account 
of  him  may  be  true." 

The  warrior  had  watched  with  keen  interest 
the  dialogue  in  which  he  was  so  deeply  interested. 
He  saw  the  hostile  gesture  of  the  hunter  and  the 


124  LILIAN. 

protecting  movement   of  Lilian.      His   face    be 
trayed  no  emotion,  but  his  small,  bright  eye  noted 
every  change  on  the  faces  around  him.     He  knew 
that  he  had  twice  owed  his  life  to  Lilian. 
How  would  he  repay  her  ? 


XXXVIII. 

LILIAN  and  Mr.  Clinton  issued  from  their  tent 
the  next  morning  as  the  sun  was  rising.  The 
sky  was  covered  with  small,  fleecy,  silvery  clouds, 
through  which  the  light  broke  softly  over  the 
dark  green  of  the  plain.  The  indescribable 
happy  stir  of  awakening  life  filled  the  dewy  air. 
The  shrill  cry  of  the  plover  came  from  the 
distance.  On  the  summit  of  the  steep  cliffs  which 
advanced  on  one  side,  leaped  and  frisked  the 
snowy  ahsahtahs,  rejoicing  in  the  first  beams  of 
the  sun. 

Below,  by  the  side  of  the  stream,  the  hunters 
were  assembled  around  the  fire,  preparing  their 
morning  meal,  while  ever  and  anon  a  short,  dry 
laugh  would  mingle  with  their  talk.  They  ap 
peared  to  have  forgotten  the  unwelcome  pres 
ence  of  Wild  Cat. 

He  sat  on  the  ground  at  a  little  distance  from 


LILIAN.  125 

them,  his  knees  drawn  up,  his  chin  resting  upon 
them,  his  eyes  moodily  fixed  upon  the  ground. 

"  Faut  obeir  a  Madame,"  said  the  old  hunter, 
and  he  offered  the  Indian  a  portion  of  their  fare. 

He  silently  refused  it. 

"  What's  the  matter,  Baptiste,  won't  he  eat  ?  " 
said  Mr.  Clinton,  advancing  towards  the  hunters. 

"  No,  Sieur,  —  he  wouldn't  eat  yesterday,  and 
he  won't  eat  to-day." 

"  What's  the  reason  ?  " 

4fcWho  can  say  ?  " 

"  You  know  the  language  of  his  tribe  ;  ask  him." 

The  Indian  had  raised  his  head,  and  was  watch 
ing  the  flight  of  two  eagles  that  were  circling  in 
broad  sweeps  high  over  the  prairie.  As  the  hun 
ter  addressed  him  he  muttered  a  few  harsh  sylla 
bles  and  returned  to  his  former  position,  his  head 
resting  upon  his  knees. 

"  He  says,  Sieur,  that  he  had  rather  be  free  in 
the  Spirit  land  than  live  a  captive  in  this.  He 
means  to  starve  himself  to  death,  it  seems,  —  the 
best  thing  he  can  do,  to  my  mind,  the  murder 
ing  rascal !  "  And  an  expression  of  heartfelt  dis 
gust  came  over  Baptiste's  bronze-green  face. 

"  Tell  him  that  he  is  free,"  said  Mr.  Clinton. 

Unwillingly  the  hunter  obeyed. 
11* 


126  LILIAN. 

The  effect  of  the  words  upon  the  savage  was 
electrical.  He  sprang  to  his  feet  and  stood  tow 
ering  erect,  his  face  and  form  of  stone  converted 
into  quivering  nerve  and  muscle.  He  extended 
his  arms  as  if  to  embrace  his  newly-found  free 
dom.  He  looked  up  to  the  sailing  eagles  and 
saluted  them  with  his  hand.  Suddenly  his  face 
changed,  he  crossed  his  arms  upon  his  chest  and 
sank  his  head  upon  his  bosom. 

"  He  has  no  horse,"  exclaimed  Baptiste  in  an 
swer  to  Mr.  Clinton's  inquiring  look  ;  —  "  tjpt's 
it.  A  man  on  the  prairies  without  a  horse  isn't 
a  man,  —  he's  just  nothing  but  food  for  the  wolves. 
We've  only  horses  enough  for  ourselves,  but  we 
are  in  the  country  of  the  mustangs.  We  shall 
fall  in  with  a  troop  before  long,  and  then  he  can 
catch  one  for  himself.  I  shall  be  glad  to  see  him 
out  of  the  camp,  since  Madame  won't  allow  us  to 
make  an  end  of  him  as  he  deserves,"  added  Bap 
tiste  in  an  injured  tone,  as  he  turned  to  the  brave 
and  spoke  again  in  Indian  tongue. 


XXXIX. 

THE  sun  was  pouring  down  the  intolerable  fer 
vor  of  his  noontide  rays.    Hunter,  horse,  bird,  and 


LILIAN.  127 

plain,  were  deep-drowned  in  the  mid-day  siesta. 
The  only  sound,  the  only  motion,  came  from  the 
cool,  fast-flowing  river.  One  only  object  braved 
the  fierceness  of  the  heat.  Erect  on  the  cliff, 
where  the  ahsahtahs  had  sported,  stood  the  war 
rior,  his  plumed  head  and  flowing  robe  sharply 
defined  against  the  deep  blue  sky.  The  varied 
colors  of  his  raiment  glowed  in  the  sunlight.  He 
was  bathed  in  the  fiery  rays.  Shading  his  eyes 
with  his  hand  of  bronze,  he  looked  towards  the 
horizon.  Hour  after  hour  he  stood.  Horses  and 
men  awoke,  stretched  themselves,  arose ;  the  birds 
again  took  up  their  song ;  the  coolness  of  declin 
ing  day  replaced  the  scorching  noon  ;  but  still  the 
warrior  stood,  shading  his  eyes  with  his  hand  of 
bronze,  scanning  the  distant  horizon. 

As  the  sun  reached  its  lower  level,  the  brave 
bent  eagerly  forward  ;  raised  both  hands  to  his 
forehead  and  gazed  still  more  intently,  then  turned, 
sprang  down  the  cliffs,  and  hastened  to  the  camp. 
In  a  few  moments,  mounted  on  a  powerful  steed, 
armed  with  a  long,  coiled  lasso,  he  was  speeding 
towards  the  south. 

The  party  stood  watching  his  onward  course. 

Far  in  the  distance  of  the  prairie  they  saw  a 
small,  dark  cloud.  It  rapidly  approached,  grow- 


128  LILIAN. 

ing  each  moment  larger.  The  Indian  threw  him 
self  on  his  side  and  rode  towards  it,  hidden  be 
hind  his  horse.  Fast  the  dark  cloud  advanced, 
changing  its  aspect  as  it  came  nearer.  They 
could  distinguish  the  varied  colors  —  chestnut, 
white,  black,  and  pied — of  the  small,  round-bodied 
prairie  horses.  Their  long  manes  and  tails  flowed 
behind  them,  as  they  curvetted,  plunged  and 
pranced  in  their  playful  course.  Fearless,  they 
approached  the  solitary  horse  with  his  hidden 
rider,  speeding  to  meet  them.  They  came  tow 
ards  him,  whinnying  as  if  to  invite  him  to  join 
their  joyous  company.  As  the  foremost  advanced 
with  outstretched  necks  and  quivering  nostrils,  the 
warrior  sprang  erect  with  a  shrill  cry,  the  lasso 
was  launched,  and  the  running  noose  fastened 
around  the  neck  of  the  nearest  of  the  band. 

Wildly  neighing,  snorting  in  affright,  their  heels 
thrown  high  in  the  air,  their  long  tails  streaming, 
the  drove  confusedly  wheeled  and  dashed  thun 
dering  back  to  the  remotest  verge  of  the  prairie. 
The  sound  of  their  rushing  hoofs  and  shrill  neigh 
ing  lessened,  died  ;  —  they  were  gone.  Gone,  all 
but  the  captive,  who,  rearing,  plunging,  his  eyes 
flashing,  his  nostrils  smoking,  his  lips  frothing, 
vainly  struggled  to  break  free  from  the  choking 


LILIAN.  129 

lasso.  Skilfully  the  Indian  alternately  checked 
and  loosened  the  cord,  now  allowing  his  prisoner 
to  bound  forward  at  full  speed,  now  throwing  him 
back  on  his  haunches.  The  sweat  poured  from 
the  reeking  sides  of  the  frightened,  furious  animal. 
He  was  white  with  foam.  His  strength  began  to 
fail.  He  stood  trembling  in  every  limb,  then, 
stiffening  himself  for  one  final  effort,  he  collected 
his  sinking  forces  for  a  piercing  scream,  as  if  to 
call  his  companions  to  his  aid,  and  fell  heavily  on 
his  side. 

The  Indian  dismounted  and  approached  his  pris 
oner,  carefully  keeping  the  cord  tightly  stretched. 
He  cautiously  advanced  to  the  head  of  the  pros 
trate  animal.  He  stooped  and  tightly  grasped 
his  nostrils.  The  mustang  struggled  more  faintly. 
He  breathed  into  them.  The  struggles  ceased. 
The  wild  horse  lay  as  though  dead.  The  brave 
passed  the  cord  several  times  around  his  lower  jaw 
and  raised  the  captive's  head.  The  animal  obeyed 
unresistingly.  The  warrior  mounted  his  horse  and 
returned  leading  his  submissive  prize,  his  happy 
freedom  ended,  his  glad  liberty  lost,  —  a  cowed, 
unloving  slave. 


130  LILIAN. 

XL. 

THE  next  morning  as  Mr.  Clinton  left  his  tent, 
Baptiste  came  to  meet  him  with  a  moody  face. 

"  Wild  Cat's  off,  Sieur,  —  off  with  all  his  traps. 
He  slipped  away  in  the  night.  It's  my  opinion 
he  means  us  no  good,  and  if  you'll  take  my  advice, 
you'll  hurry  up  the  river  and  get  out  of  this  re 
gion  as  fast  as  you  can.  I  don't  like  his  slipping 
off  in  that  way.  Great  pity  Madame  didn't  let 
me  shoot  him !  "  And  Baptiste  raised  his  rifle, 
his  inseparable  companion,  and  let  it  fall  heavily 
on  the  butt  end. 

"  Qu'est  ce  qu'il  y  a,  Baptiste  ?  "  said  Lilian, 
coming  forward. 

"  Le  chat  Sauvage  s'est  sauve*,  Madame,  voila 
tout."  And  Baptiste  returned  to  the  hunters,  who 
with  unwonted  activity  were  making  their  prep 
arations  for  an  immediate  departure. 

Internally  grateful  to  Baptiste  for  his  reticence, 
Mr.  Clinton  placed  Lilian  on  her  horse  so  soon 
as  the  tent  was  struck  and  the  pack-horses  laden. 
Warily  they  rode  forward,  keeping  close  to  each 
other,  talking  little,  laughing  not  at  all.  Cau 
tiously  they  scanned  every  rock,  tree,  cliff,  and 
ravine  which  they  passed  ;  but  no  trail,  no  scout, 


LILIAN.  131 

no  hostile  sign  of  any  sort  presented  itself.  At 
the  end  of  the  third  day,  any  lurking  alarm  that 
Mr.  Clinton  might  have  felt  was  dissipated  ;  and 
laying  aside  his  recent  precautions  he  resumed  his 
customary  walks  and  rides  with  Lilian,  who  in 
spite  of  his  efforts  to  conceal  their  uneasiness,  had 
been  somewhat  disquieted  by  the  air  of  sinister 
apprehension  of  the  party. 

They  had  travelled  far  up  the  course  of  the 
river,  —  for  water  was  too  scarce  on  the  prairies 
to  be  willingly  forsaken,  —  and  had  arrived  on  a 
high  plateau,  surrounded  by  volcanic  peaks,  which 
shut  in  the  plain  with  an  irregular  barrier  of  tur- 
reted  walls,  giant  bastions,  and  frowning  towers. 
The  herbage  was  scanty  and  bitter,  the  air  thin 
and  sharp. 

"  What  a  dismal  place,"  said  Lilian.  "  It  looks 
beleaguered  by  hostile  fortresses.  Let  us  turn  back 
to-morrow." 

And  she  retired  from  the  gloomy  prospect  so 
soon  as  her  tent  was  pitched ;  and,  tired  by  the 
day's  journey,  lay  down  and  fell  asleep.  She  was 
roused  by  Mr.  Clinton's  voice, — 

"  Lilian,  come  hither." 

She  hastened  to  his  side. 


132  LILIAN. 

The  large,  full  moon  was  slowly  rising  over  the 
distant  battlements  of  rock,  pouring  a  flood  of 
silver  light  over  the  plateau.  What  had  been  the 
barrenness  of  desolation,  touched  by  those  rays, 
now  smiled  in  pathetic  beauty.  Sweetly  solemn 
lay  the  landscape  before  them,  tempting  them 
forth.  They  left  the  camp,  —  the  peacefully- 
grazing  horses,  the  hunters  lounging  and  chatting 
around  the  crackling  fire,  —  and  strayed  across 
the  plateau.  They  wandered  long.  The  scene 
was  too  peaceful,  too  beautiful  to  leave.  They 
knew  not  how  far  they  had  gone,  when  they  per 
ceived  that  the  moon  was  sinking.  They  turned 
to  retrace  their  steps,  but  the  distance  was  greater 
than  they  had  thought.  The  moon  sank,  and 
darkness  covered  the  plain ;  but  the  watch-fire 
shone  brightly  in  the  distance,  guiding  them  home 
ward.  It  was  growing  larger  as  they  advanced, 
when  Mr.  Clinton  stopped  abruptly,  and  laid  his 
hand  tightly  on  Lilian's  arm. 

"  Hush ! " 

At  the  same  instant  she  felt  the  earth  tremble. 

"  Down  !  "  he  whispered,  and  he  threw  his  arm 
round  her,  and  bore  her  to  the  ground  beside  him. 
A  rush  swept  by  them, —  a  rush  of  horses'  hoofs. 
It  swept  towards  the  watch-fire.  The  trampling 


LILIAN.  133 

died  in  the  distance.  Lilian  had  scarcely  time  to 
ask  herself  what  she  dreaded,  when  a  yell  so  hor 
rible,  so  unearthly,  rent  the  midnight  air,  that  she 
cowered  into  her  husband's  arms,  and  hid  her  face 
in  his  bosom.  Again  and  again  it  came,  mingled 
with  the  sharp  report  of  fire-arms.  Then  all  was 
still.  She  raised  her  head  and  looked.  The 
watch-fire  burned  faint  and  fainter.  It  died  out. 
Again  the  trampling  hoofs  rushed  past,  and  in 
greater  number  than  before.  Again  the  sound 
vanished  in  the  distance,  and  Lilian  and  her  hus 
band  were  alone,  —  alone  in  the  wilderness,  alone, 
save  the  corpses  by  the  watch-fire. 

Was  it  for  this  that  she  had  drawn  him  to  the 
wilds  ?  Had  she  brought  him  there  to  die  ?  She 
wrung  her  hands  in  self-accusing  anguish. 

"  O  God,  forgive  me !  God  forgive  me  !  I  am 
the  cause.  — I!  " 

She  fell  on  the  ground  whence  they  had  risen. 
She  grovelled  at  his  feet.  She  embraced  his  knees, 
with  harsh  gasps. 

He  did  not  speak  to  her.  He  did  not  attempt 
to  console  her  with  words.  He  raised  her.  He 
seated  himself  on  the  earth,  and  took  her  in  his 
arms.  He  soothed  her  as  if  she  had  been  a  little 
child ;  then,  as  she  grew  calmer,  he  spoke. 
12 


134  LILIAN. 

"  Lilian,  look  upward." 

She  looked  and  saw  the  eternal  stars,  —  God's 
handwriting  on  the  celestial  wall. 

They  gazed  upward  in  silence  together.  They 
felt  the  Eternal  Presence  embrace  them  with  its 
boundless  love.  Life  grew  as  a  very  little  thing, 
as  they  contemplated  the  majesty  of  Infinity. 
Lilian's  soul  drew  in  strength ;  and  when  her  hus 
band  again  spoke, —  "  0  God,  eternal  Father,  we 
are  in  Thy  hands,  whether  we  live  or  die :  Thy 
will  be  done," — her  keenest  agony  was  over. 
She  could  say, — 

"  Amen." 

The  dark  hours  wore  on.  Wearied  out,  Lilian 
slept  in  Mr.  Clinton's  arms.  He  wrapped  his  coat 
about  her,  to  protect  her  from  the  chill  air,  and, 
holding  her  close  to  his  breast,  watched  through 
the  night. 

As  the  first  glimmer  of  light  broke  above  the 
gloomy  barrier  of  the  plain,  he  roused  her.  It 
smote  him  with  a  sense  of  cruelty  to  awaken  her 
to  all  that  returning  day  would  bring ;  but  their 
only  possible  safety  lay  in  immediate  flight.  She 
awoke  ;  —  she  stood  up.  Consciousness  had  lasted 
through  her  sleep.  She  waked  to  the  full  mem 
ory  of  all  that  had  occurred,  and  with  her  hus- 


LILIAN.  135 

band's  words  of  faith  still  sounding  in  her  ears. 
She  gazed  around  on  the  bleak,  desolate  plain. 
She  lifted  her  eyes  to  him  and  smiled.  At  least 
they  were  together.  He  caught  her  to  his  heart. 
A  spasm  sharper  than  that  of  death  wrung  it. 
She  smiled ;  and  she  had  wakened  to  her  first  day 
of  starvation. 

They  sought  the  river,  to  descend  unseen  its 
wooded  banks.  Their  best  chance  of  meeting 
travellers  lay  in  keeping  close  to  the  stream  ;  and 
where  else  should  they  find  water?  They  came 
to  where  the  shore  bore  fresh  marks  of  footsteps 
and  the  recent  print  of  hoofs.  They  were  close 
to  the  camp  of  the  evening  before.  What  was 
there  now  ? 

"  Stay  here  while  I  go  forward."  And  seating 
Lilian  on  the  bank,  Mr.  Clinton  went  towards  the 
silent  spot.  In  a  few  moments  he  returned.  She 
rose  and  gazed  at  him  eagerly.  He  shook  his 
head. 

"  We  must  hurry  forward  as  fast  as  your 
strength  allows.  The  body  of  an  Indian  is  there 
also.  They  will  return  to  seek  it." 

They  hastened  down  the  shore  of  the  fast-flow 
ing  river.  With  feverish  speed,  Lilian  pressed  on, 
insensible  to  hunger  or  fatigue,  until  the  plateau, 


136  LILIAN. 

with  its  gloomy  battlements  and  frowning  towers, 
lay  behind  them;  and,  passing -through  the  narrow 
gorge  down  which  the  river  rushed  foaming,  they 
entered  on  the  illimitable  prairie  beyond.  Then 
her  strength  forsook  her  all  at  once.  The  sun 
was  high.  She  had  walked  since  daybreak,  fast 
ing. 

Mr.  Clinton  laid  her  under  the  shadow  of  a 
tree,  gathered  grass  for  a  pillow  to  her  head, 
brought  water  in  his  hands  for  her  to  drink,  and, 
then  leaving  her,  sought  for  wild  fruits  or  berries 
to  allay  the  hunger  whose  pangs  he  also  felt ;  but 
not  for  himself.  It  was  impossible  that,  amid  that 
profusion  of  flowers,  under  those  magnificent  trees, 
on  that  rich  plain,  no  food  could  be  found,  —  no 
berries,  no  roots.  He  searched  on  every  bush, 
beneath  every  tuft  of  grass,  he  tore  up  each 
strange  plant  by  the  root,  ever  and  anon  returning 
to  look  upon  Lilian's  pale  face. 

She  lay  quite  still,  apparently  in  a  quiet  sleep. 
Through  her  closed  lids  she  saw  that  his  hands 
were  empty.  She  feigned  slumber  to  lessen  his 
distress.  Again  and  again  he  departed  on  his 
quest.  At  lasi;  he  came,  fast  hurrying.  Did  he 
bring  food !  She  sat  up,  she  tried  to  rise  to  meet 
him.  Was  it  food !  He  poured  crimson  buffalo 


LILIAN.  137 

berries  into  her  lap.  He  threw  himself  down  be 
side  her.  He  kissed  her  over  and  over  again. 
He  bade  her  eat. 

Scanty,  insufficient  as  was  the  meal,  yet  it 
stilled  their  hunger  for  a  while,  and  gave  Lilian 
strength  to  go  on  —  on  —  in  the  desperate  hope 
of  meeting  help  where  help  was  none,  —  on,  day 
after  day,  until  that  last  hope  died  away. 

Lilian  suffered  less  than  Mr.  Clinton.  She 
rested  upon  him  as  a  child  upon  its  mother.  She 
had  not  lived  long  enough  to  be  over  fond  of  life ; 
and,  as  is  usual  with  the  young,  she  had  little  fear 
of  death.  If  they  must  die,  at  least  they  would 
die  together.  Death  was  a  small  thing  compared 
with  separation.  To  die,  —  to  be  together  forever 
in  an  union  even  more  perfect  than  that  of  earth ! 
It  was  not  so  greatly  to  be  dreaded.  They  might 
have  much  to  endure  first,  —  her  courage  well- 
nigh  failed  her  at  the  thought  of  his  suffering,  — 
but  it  would  be  only  for  a  little  while,  and  then 
they  would  be  together  in  Eternity.  And  she 
raised  her  face,  serene  and  fearless,  and  thanked 
God. 

And  Mr.  Clinton,  how  did  he  look  upon  the 
lingering  death  that  seemed  inevitable  for  both  ? 

Existence  was   to  him  a  precious   thing.     He 
12* 


138  LILIAN. 

knew  its  value  better  than  did  Lilian.  The  love 
of  life  was  strong  in  his  powerful  brain,  his  full 
veins,  his  vigorous  frame.  But  for  her,  —  for 
Lilian,  —  there  lay  the  bitterness  of  death.  Day 
by  day,  to  see  her  young  life  wasting;  hour  by 
hour,  to  watch  her  slow  decay ;  and  at  last  to  lay 
her  down  in  the  wilderness  to  die !  How  could 
he  bear  it? 

He  called  up  all  his  forces.  He  braced  himself 
for  the  struggle.  He  strove  with  his  anguish  ;  he 

mastered  it.     It  was therefore  it  was  right. 

The  bitterness  passed ;  and,  from  the  height  of 
submission  to  God's  will,  he  Io9ked  down  undis 
mayed  upon  the  Valley  of  the  Shadow  of  Death. 

They  had  set  forth  in  the  flush  of  joy,  hope, 
and  love,.  Nothing  remained  to  them  now,  save 
love.  The  pitiless  prairie  stretched  before  them, 
gay,  luxuriant,  beautiful.  The  red  antelopes 
sprang  rejoicing  by  in  graceful  bounds,  the 
brown  buffaloes  darkened  the  plains,  the  white 
ahsahtahs  frolicked  on  inaccessible  cliffs.  Birds 
innumerable  filled  the  air  with  song.  All  was 
glad  and  smiling  around  them.  Nature  refused 
her  care  to  them  alone.  Each  day  saw  their  steps 
slower,  their  faces  more  wan.  They  smiled  on 


LILIAN.  139 

each  other  from  their  hollow  eyes,  but  their 
parched  lips  rarely  parted. 

At  length  their  bare  and  scanty  food  failed 
utterly.  Not  a  berry,  not  a  root,  rewarded  Mr. 
Clinton's  search.  Lilian  could  go  no  farther.  A 
torpor  of  mind  and  body  stole  over  her,  benumb 
ing  the  insufferable  torment  of  her  hunger.  Ob 
jects  grew  small  and  dim  before  her  sight.  She 
tried  to  speak.  Her  tongue  lay  immovable. 
Her  husband  spoke  to  her.  Her  ear  was  deaf. 
Scarcely  knowing  why  he  did  so,  he  bent  down  a 
tall  sapling,  and  tied  his  handkerchief  to  its  top 
most  branch,  then  returned  to  watch  those  last 
moments  which  were  to  take  her  from  him  but  for 
a  little  while. 

Mercifully  the  extremity  of  his  sufferings  of 
body  and  mind  had  blunted  his  sensibility  to  pain. 
The  last  had  come,  and  he  sat  calmly  by  his  dying 
wife.  He  sat  holding  her  hand,  looking  upon  her 
ashen  face.  He  saw  nothing,  save  that  wasted 
form. 

"  Hallo  I  " 

He  gave  no  heed.  It  was  but  another  of  the 
mocking  delusions  that  had  tormented  him  during 
those  days  of  misery  now  past  by. 

Nearer  again. 


140  LILIAN. 

"  Halloo !  " 

Mr.  Clinton  turned  his  head.  A  figure  was 
spurring  over  the  plain,  —  a  white  man !  Too 
late  I  she  was  dying.  And  he  fastened  his  eyes 
again  on  that  motionless  form. 

The  horseman  galloped  up. 

"  God  Almighty !  Why,  you're  starving,  ben't 
you  ? "  And  the  old  leather-skinned,  weather- 
beaten  trapper  knelt  beside  Lilian,  while  Mr. 
Clinton  sat,  with  dull  eyes,  dumb  and  immovable. 

"  She'll  come  to,"  exclaimed  the  trapper,  spring 
ing  to  his  feet ;  "  but  she's  precious  near  gone, 
and  you  are,  too,"  he  added,  looking  attentively 
at  Mr.  Clinton.  "Do  you  hear,"  he  repeated, 
raising  his  voice,  "  she  may  come  to  again ;  be 
alive ;  do  you  understand  ?  " 

A  look  of  intelligence  shone  from  the  heavy, 
hollow  orbs ;  a  spasm  of  returning  animation 
passed  over  the  impassive  face.  Mr.  Clinton  rose, 
staggering,  and  leaned  over  his  wife. 

The  trapper  hurried  back,  with  a  leathern  cup 
in  his  hand. 

"  Here,  jist  you  lift  her  head,  if  you  can,  and 
help  me  pour  this  down  her  throat." 

They  raised  the  light,  —  ah,  how  light !  —  form. 
The  brandy  was  poured  within  the  thin  blue  lips, 


LILIAN.  141 

slowly,  drop  by  drop.  Would  she,  could  she 
swallow?  Mr.  Clinton  watched  the  emaciated 
throat.  There  was  a  moment  of  agonized  sus 
pense,  then  a  faint  movement,  another,  —  she 
swallowed !  The  husband  burst  into  tears  and 
sobbed  aloud; 

"  Come,  now,"  said  the  trapper,  encouragingly, 
—  "but  'ta'n't  no  wonder."  And  his  own  voice 
grew  thick.  "  There  now,  lay  her  down ;  she 
must  rest  before  we  give  her  any  more ;  —  and 
you  jist  drink  this  yourself.  You  need  it  e'en- 
a'most  as  much.  Now  I  shall  be  spry  and  make  a 
fire,  and  have  some  broth  in  no  time.  That's  the 
proper  vittles  for  her,  pretty  dear.  I  swunnys !  " 
And  shaking  his  head  in  comprehensive  protest, 
the  old  trapper  set  rapidly  about  the  preparation 
of  the  food  that  was  to  save  them. 

Cautiously  they  administered  it,  drop  by  drop, 
spoonful  by  spoonful,  with  many  a  rest,  many  an 
anxious  pause,  ere  Lilian  gave  other  sign  of  return 
ing  life  than  that  evinced  by  the  act  of  swallow 
ing.  At  length  her  eyes  languidly  opened.  They 
were  glazed  no  longer.  Mr.  Clinton  bent  over  her. 

"  Lilian,  we  are  saved  !  " 

A  slight,  almost  imperceptible  motion  of  the 
fingers  he  held  was  the  answer.  She  had  heard. 


142  LILIAN. 

"  Now  jist  as  quick  as  she's  a  leetle  brighter,  I 
shall  go  off  down  to  the  camp,"  said  the  trapper. 
"  There's  a  party  of  us,  you  see,  about  four  or 
five  miles  off,  that's  all ;  and  I'll  bring  up  a  wagon 
and  put  her  in  it  and  take  her  down,  and  the  trap 
pers'  wives  will  nurse  her  up  first-rate.  Precious 
lucky  I  came  along,  though  —  there  wasn't  much 
life  left  in  her.  I  always  did  kinder  believe  in 
Providence  I  " 

And  he  galloped  away. 

The  stimulus  of  his  presence  removed,  a  drow 
siness  came  over  Mr.  Clinton.  Lilian  still  lay  to 
all  appearance  unconscious.  He  sat  beside  her 
motionless,  sometimes  vaguely  wondering  why  he 
did  not  feel  more  glad,  then  once  more  relapsing 
into  partial  insensibility. 

He  was  aroused  by  the  cracking  of  whips,  the 
rattling  of  wheels,  and  the  shouts  of  drivers.  Up 
the  plain  came  a  great  white-covered  wagon,  drawn 
by  a  long  team  of  mules.  The  trapper  galloped 
to  his  side. 

"  Come,  rouse  up  !  We're  moving  the  camp  up 
here.  We  thought  she  couldn't  stand  being  car 
ried  so  far,  —  and  here  are  the  women  come  ahead 
to  take  care  of  her,"  he  added,  as  the  lumbering 
wagon  drew  up  and  a  bevy  of  young  gayly-dressed 


LILIAN.  143 

Indian  women  sprang  from  it  and  crowded  around 
Lilian,  their  dark  beauty,  and  full,  rounded  limbs, 
contrasting  painfully  with  her  death-like  pallor  and 
shrunken  form. 

With  many  a  pitying  ejaculation  they  tenderly 
raised  her  in  their  arms,  and  bore  her  to  the  bed 
of  soft  mats  they  had  spread  for  her  in  the  wagon. 
As  she  was  placed  upon  the  rude  couch,  Lilian 
opened  her  eyes  and  looked  uneasily  around.  The 
youngest  of  the  band  caught  the  distressed  glance, 
nodded  intelligently,  and  darted  away.  In  a  mo 
ment  she  returned  bringing  Mr.  Clinton. 

As  Lilian's  eyes,  still  restlessly  wandering,  fell 
on  his  face,  the  shadow  of  a  smile  hovered  over 
her  wasted  features.  She  feebly  opened  her  arms. 
He  fell  beside  her  and  buried  his  face  in  her 
bosom. 

The  Indian  women  softly  withdrew,  and  left 
them,  who  had  been  as  the  dead,  and  were  alive 
again,  alone  to  that  first  silent,  tearful  rapture  of 
thanksgiving. 


XLI. 

THE  camp  was  pitched  for  a  long  halt;   the 
wagons  corralled  in  a  circle,  and  chained  together 


144  LILIAN. 

so  as  to  form  a  sort  of  fort  in  case  of  attack  from 
the  Indians ;  and,  leaving  a  strong  guard,  the  trap 
pers  departed,  taking  with  them  their  pack-mules 
laden  with  all  best  calculated  to  tempt  the  cupidity 
of  their  savage  customers.  They  were  less  ad 
venturous  than  usual,  for  the  Indians  were  in  an 
aggressive  mood,  and  Mr.  Clinton's  party  was 
not  the  only  one  that  had  been  recently  attacked. 

"I  don't  think  Wild  Cat  had  anything  to  do 
with  that  ere  skrimmage,"  said  the  old  trapper, 
one  of  the  guard  left  behind,  to  Mr.  Clinton, 
"  coz,  you  see,  the  tribe  around  that  plateau  and 
his'n  are  allers  a-fightin'.  He'd  be  much  likelier 
round  in  these  diggins,"  —  and  he  cast  a  search 
ing  glance  around  the  peaceful  horizon.  Nothing 
moving  was  to  be  seen  save  one  great  eagle  cir 
cling  in  the  upper  air.  As  they  watched  him,  he 
rose  high,  poised  himself,  then  swooped  upon  his 
prey. 

The  care  and  skill,  the  affectionate  devotion  of 
her  Indian  nurses,  the  healthful  food,  the  quiet 
sleep,  and  most  of  all,  the  sense  of  comparative 
security,  soon  brought  back  the  roundness  to  Lil 
ian's  figure,  the  color  to  her  cheek.  She  rallied 


LILIAN.  145 

more  quickly  in  every  way  than  did  Mr.  Clinton ; 
her  sympathetic  nature  reflected  more  vividly 
than  his  what  was  around.  Now  that  the  cup  of 
the  wine  of  life  was  again  held  to  her  lips,  she 
drank  joyously  of  it.  No  shadow  from  the  past 
troubled  its  sparkling  depths,  no  recent  bitterness 
lingered  on  its  brim. 

But  with  his  reflective,  tenacious  nature  it  was 
not  so.  His  past  entered  into  and  became  a  part 
of  himself.  He  could  not  free  himself  from  it,  he 
could  not  shake  it  off.  Its  presence  haunted,  op 
pressed  him.  Long  after  the  light  had  returned 
to  Lilian's  eyes,  the  elasticity  to  her  step,  he 
would  sit  wearily  leaning  back,  watching  her 
as,  lying  under  the  leafy  shadow  of  the  great 
trees,  she  petted  and  played  with  a  little  antelope 
brought  home  to  her  by  one  of  the  hunters ;  or, 
surrounded  by  the  Indian  women,  her  fair  cheek 
and  snowy  hands  glowing  like  tinted  alabaster 
beside  their  tawny  beauty,  she  wiled  away  the 
time  learning  to  embroider  deerskin  shirts  and 
moccasons  with  gayly-dyed  porcupine  quills,  or  to 
weave  pliant-  mats  with  brightly-tinted  rushes, 
whilst  the  smiling  circle  with  language  of  rapid 
signs,  explained,  corrected,  and  admired.  He 
would  sit  watching  her  with  a  careworn  look,  as 

13 


146  LILIAN. 

if  he  dreaded  to  see  her  snatched  from  him,  and 
felt  his  inability  to  protect  her.  Had  she  not 
already  nearly  died  before  his  sight  while  he  stood 
powerless  by!  Could  he  but  again  see  her  in 
the  safety  of  her  distant  home  he  could  be  at 
ease.  —  Never  till  then. 


XLII. 

AT  last  the  trappers  returned,  laden  with  furry 
treasure.  The  camp  broke  up,  and  moved  east 
ward.  The  long  line  of  white  wagons  with  the 
file  of  heavily  laden  mules,  the  patient  led  horses, 
the  mounted  trappers  in  their  fantastic  garb  of 
embroidered  deerskin,  now  and  then  dashing  off 
for  some  tempting  shot  at  a  stray  buffalo  or  an 
telope,  rolled  together  over  the  plains  ;  now  ford 
ing  rivers  on  rudely  constructed  rafts,  now  strik 
ing  through  broad  belts  of  woodland,  now  steering 
across  the  open  seas  of  green,  now  winding  among 
interlocking  ravines,  till  the  nightfall  stopped  their 
onward  march.  Then  by  some  wooded  spring  or 
river  bank,  the  halt  was  made.  Abound  lay  the 
prairie  half-hidden  in  the  twilight,  above  rose  the 
tall  waving  wreaths  of  smoke,  while  below  blazed 
the  quickly-kindled  fire,  its  bright  light  reflected 


LILIAN.  147 

by  the  encircling  wall  of  white  wagons,  and  glanc 
ing  on  the  sun-browned  faces  and  half-savage  garb 
of  the  trappers  as  they  hastened  to  and  fro,  pick 
eting  the  horses,  unlading  the  mules,  and  suspend 
ing  the  product  of  the  day's  hunting  upon  rude 
wooden  props  before  the  mignty  blaze,  while  the 
Indian  women,  with  their  black  hair  hanging  in 
carefully  braided  tresses  over  their  bosoms,  their 
long  ear-rings  and  gaudy  necklaces,  their  parti 
colored  skirts  and  brilliant  kerchiefs,  their  little 
feet  and  dainty  ankles  encased  in  richly  embroid 
ered  moccasons,  stood  in  the  dancing  firelight, 
chatting  and  jesting  in  happy  immunity  from  the 
lot  of  hard  labor  to  which  their  less  favored  sisters 
in  Indian  lodges  were  doomed.  It  was  a  gay  and 
cheery  sight.  And  long  after  the  evening  meal 
was  over,  and  Lilian  and  Mr.  Clinton  had  retired 
to  the  wagon  which  had  been  assigned  them 
by  their  hospitable  hosts,  they  would  hear  the 
sound  of  laughter,  song,  and  story,  with  which 
the  hardy  trappers  beguiled  the  early  night, 
while  from  time  to  time  the  laughter  of  the  In 
dian  women,  as  they  chatted  apart,  would  rise 
like  the  bubbling  of  an  unseen  brook. 


148  LILIAN. 

XLIII. 

IT  was  the  mid-day  halt.  The  wagons  stood 
here  and  there  beneath  the  shade  of  the  huge 
trees  which  grew  beside  the  course  of  a  little 
stream.  The  mules  unladen,  rolled  luxuriously 
in  the  soft  thick  grass.  The  horses  stood  knee- 
deep  in  the  water,  drinking  long  draughts,  ever 
and  anon  raising  their  streaming  nostrils  and  gaz 
ing  approvingly  around.  The  Indian  women  were 
busily  preparing  the  grouse  and  ploirer  which  were 
to  form  the  delicacies  of  the  coming  meal,  while 
those  of  the  trappers  not  busy  with  the  animals 
were  gathering  dry  wood  for  the  fire. 

Lilian  and  Mr.  Clinton  were  the  only  unoccu 
pied  members  of  the  party.  They  strolled  tow 
ards  a  small  eminence  which  rose  abruptly  near, 
—  a  rocky  islet  on  the  turf.  They  climbed  it  to 
enjoy  the  full  sweep  of  the  prospect.  They  gazed 
delightedly  on  the  landscape,  the  gently-winding 
little  river,  the  wooded  ridge  that  rose  midway  in 
the  plain,  on  whose  green  carpet  scattered  herds 
of  buffaloes  were  peacefully  grazing,  when  Lilian 
said  eagerly,  — 

"  There  must  be  another  party  near  us.  Do 
you  see  that  smoke  ?  " 


LILIAN.  149 

Mr.  Clinton  looked  where  she  pointed.  A  pale 
blue  line  writhed  upward  above  the  tree-tops  of 
the  ridge.  He  looked  keenly  around.  Smoke 
was  rising  from  more  points  than  one.  He  lifted 
Lilian  in  his  arms  and  bounded  down  the  rocks. 

"  Run  for  your  life,"  he  said,  as  they  reached 
the  ground.  He  shouted  aloud  as  they  sprang 
forwards,  — 

"  The  Indians." 

In  an  instant  all  was  breathless  haste.  The 
wagons  were  corralled  ;  the  horses  and  mules 
driven  into  the  circle ;  rifles,  guns  and  pistols, 
primed  and  loaded ;  bowie-knives  and  daggers 
thrust  in  the  belts,  and  bags  of  powder  and  shot 
placed  open  at  hand. 

As  the  hasty  preparations  for  defence  were  com 
pleted,  and  the  trappers  took  their  places  lining  the 
wagons,  while  their  wives  crouched  behind  them, 
herds  of  buffaloes  came  galloping  over  the  ridge 
and  confusedly  rushing  over  the  plain. 

"  They're  coming,"  said  the  old  trapper  who 
stood  beside  Mr.  Clinton. 

"  Harvey,  you  say  I  must  not  have  a  gun," 
said  Lilian,  standing  beside  him  with  blanched 
cheeks  and  flashing  eyes,  "  but  at. least  I  can  load 
for  you." 

13* 


150  LILIAN. 

"  Yes,  that  you  can,"  said  the  old  trapper,  "  as 
well  as  any  of  'em.  That's  the  women's  part  of 
the  bis'ness.  Gives  us  a  great  advantage,  you  see. 
But  here  they  are,  —  now  for  it !  " 

As  he  spoke  the  Indians  issued  from  the  wood 
and  came  pouring  towards  them  in  a  long,  wav 
ing  line,  with  streaming  pennons  and  flaunting 
robes.  Their  spear-heads  and  gun-barrels  glit 
tered  brightly  in  the  sun,  as,  bending  low  on  their 
horses'  necks,  they  dashed  forwards. 

"  Don't  look  out.  Stand  back  and  keep  be 
low  the  line  of  the  woodwork,"  said  Mr.  Clinton. 

Lilian  obeyed  and  knelt,  grasping  the  powder- 
horn,  ready  to  serve  him.  She  could  see  nothing 
without,  she  knew  not  how  far  the  foe  had  ad 
vanced,  when  before,  behind,  on  every  side,  rose 
the  vengeful,  bloodthirsty  yell  that  she  had  heard 
at  midnight  on  the  plateau.  As  it  shook  the  air, 
a  storm  of  whistling  arrows  and  hissing  balls  hailed 
on  the  wagons.  It  was  answered  by  a  sharp,  rat 
tling  volley.  The  fight  had  begun. 

Lilian  could  distinguish  nothing.  She  heard  on 
every  side  a  sharp,  continuous  rattle  mixed  with 
oaths  and  shouts,  and  howling  above  all  the  fear 
ful  warwhoop,  The  air  was  white  with  smoke. 
She  could  but  dimly  see  the  forms  of  her  husband 


LILIAN.  151 

and  the  trappers.  Dexterously  she  fulfilled  her 
task.  Her  eyelid  did  not  quiver  nor  her  hand 
tremble,  as  she  poured  the  black  grains,  and 
dropped  the  death-dealing  bullets  in  rapid  suc 
cession  into  the  quickly  returning  weapons. 

The  tumult  raged  more  and  more  furious.  The 
horses  and  mules  plunged  madly  within  the  circle. 
The  wagons  heaved  as  the  terrified  animals,  snort 
ing  and  screaming,  tore  round  their  narrow 
bounds,  seeking  to  escape.  It  was  one  deafening 
din,  when  Mr.  Clinton,  dropping  his  gun,  stag 
gered  backwards  and  fell  on  his  side.  The  old 
trapper  strode  across  him  and  took  his  place. 

Lilian  threw  down  the  powder-flask,  and  flung 
herself  on  her  knees.  She  tore  open  his  shirt. 
A  pulsing  crimson  stream  was  flowing  from  his 
side.  She  vainly  sought  to  stanch  it,  unmindful 
of  the  raging  storm  around,  when  suddenly  a  yell, 
louder  and  wilder  than  any  which  had  gone  be 
fore,  rose  close  to  her  ears.  The  trappers  sprang 
from  the  end  of  the  wagon  into  the  inner  circle, 
as  the  covering  was  ripped  open,  and  yelling, 
whooping,  demon-like,  the  savages  leaped  down 
beside  her.  She  saw  a  crowd  of  dark,  distorted 
faces,  a  confusion  of  uplifted  arms,  the  glitter  of 
tomahawks  and  the  shining  of  knives.  A  hand 


152  LILIAN. 

was  twisted  in  her  hair.  She  was  borne  back 
wards.  She  gave  one  look  upward.  A  terrible 
form  stooped  over  her  with  upraised  arm.  She 
closed  her  eyes.  The  blow  —  where  was  it !  — 
She  felt  herself  snatched  up.  She  saw  herself 
lowered  into  the  arms  of  a  painted  savage.  The 
warrior  who  first  seized  her,  lifted  Mr.  Clinton  in 
his  arms  and  sprang  with  him  to  the  ground  be 
side  her  amid  the  surging  crowd  of  upturned,  yel 
ling  faces. 

The  firing,  the  war-whoops,  the  confusion,  were 
smothered  in  the  thick,  black  veil  of  unconscious 
ness  that  descended  upon  Lilian.  She  knew  no 
more. 


XLIV. 

LILIAN  was  recalled  to  her  senses  by  the  rush 
of  air  upon  her  face.  She  felt  herself  tightly 
clasped  and  rapidly  borne  forward.  Half  be 
numbed  by  terror  she  unclosed  her  eyes.  She 
was  on  a  horse,  an  Indian's  arm  was  cast  around 
her,  another  horse  was  flying  forward  by  her  side. 
Bound  to  its  back,  extended  at  full  length,  lay 
Mr.  Clinton.  The  Indian  held  both  bridles.  On 
they  dashed.  The  grass  flowed  beneath  them  like 


LILIAN.  153 

an  emerald  river.  The  trees  looked  misty  as  they 
passed.  The  air  whistled  in  her  ears.  Lilian's 
brain  whirled.  She  closed  her  eyes  and  tried  to 
pray.  No  words  would  come.  Her  thoughts 
mixed  with  the  unremitting  muffled  beat  of  the 
horses'  hoofs,  the  whistling  of  the  wind,  and  the 
iron  pressure  of  the  Indian's  arm. 

She  knew  not  how  long  their  course  had  lasted 
when  the  -horses  stopped.  The  Indian  sprang  to 
the  ground,  lifted  her  down  and  placed  her  upon 
her  feet.  She  tried  to  advance  towards  her  hus 
band,  but  her  limbs  failed  under  her  and  she  sank 
on  the  grass. 

A  belt  of  young  willows,  a  solitary  lodge  on  the 
edge  of  the  prairie,  were  swimming  before  her 
giddy  sight.  Timorously  she  glanced  at  the  war 
rior.  Wild  Cat  stood  before  her.  "  Life  for  life  !  " 


XLV. 

THE  sentinel  stood  at  his  post  on  the  lonely 
Western  fort.  He  looked  over  the  sad,  bleak 
prairies,  lately  so  smiling.  The  setting  sunlight 
lay  sorrowfully  over  their  tawny  expanse.  He 
watched  the  sun  go  down,  the  mists  rise  and  the 
shadows  fall.  As  he  stood  and  watched,  over  the 


154  LILIAN. 

yellow  plain,  half-veiled  in  the  spectral  mist,  half 
hid  in  the  cheating  shadow,  he  saw  three  mounted 
forms  appear  as  if  they  had  risen  out  of  the  earth, 
one  an  Indian.  He  rubbed  his  eyes  and  looked. 
Three  !  —  there  were  but  two  riding  towards  the 
fort.  The  Indian  had  disappeared.  He  had  van 
ished  into  the  shadow.  He  had  melted  into  the 
mist.  He  was  gone  ! 


XLVI. 

THE  gun  had  sounded.  The  last  farewells  had 
been  spoken,  the  last  handkerchiefs  had  fluttered 
from  the  stern  of  the  steamer.  The  crowd  on 
the  pier  had  dispersed,  the  passengers  had  sought 
their  state-rooms  to  put  their  possessions  in  what 
order  they  might  before  the  coming  crisis.  The 
great  ship  steamed  proudly  down  the  wide-open 
ing  bay,  passing  innumerable  smaller,  white-sailed 
craft  and  crowded  ferry-boats,  that  shouted  and 
cheered  her  on  her  outward  way.  The  wind 
came  freshly  from  the  ocean,  the  vessel  caught 
the  motion  of  the  waves.  Lilian  and  Mr.  Clin 
ton  stood  together  at  the  prow.  His  eye  bright 
ened  and  his  color  rose  as  he  breathed  in  long 
draughts  of  the  invigorating  air. 


LILIAN.  155 

As  the  voyage  proceeded,  the  languor  which  had 
hung  over  him  ever  since  the  summer,  vanished. 
His  figure  rose  erect  and  stately  as  before.  The 
grave  smile  returned  to  his  eyes,  the  deep  cadence 
to  his  voice. 

Seated  on  the  gallery  by  the  great  wheels  with 
Lilian  by  his  side,  he  passed  his  days,  now  read 
ing  to  her,  now  watching  the  ceaseless  variety  of 
water  and  sky,  now  looking  down  with  her  upon 
the  unending  comedy  of  the  decks  below.  Like 
the  shades  cast  from  a  magic  lantern,  the  motley 
crowd  passed  before  them  :  —  a  pretty  danseuse 
with  brilliant  eyes,  a  small  foot  and  modest  man 
ners,  from  whom  all  the  lady  passengers  shrank 
with  abhorrence,  and  who  held  in  solitary  state  a 
much  frequented  court  of  gentlemen  on  the  upper 
end  of  the  promenade  deck ;  a  little  wizened,  hun 
gry-eyed  man,  her  father,  who  was  never  seen  to 
speak  to  her ;  thirty  German  Jews,  shading  from 
dirty  black  to  dirty  yellow,  all  thin,  all  small,  all 
in  shaggy  great-coats  and  plaided  waistcoats ;  a  re 
turning  French  minister,  politely  bored  with  every 
thing  and  everybody,  with  himself  most  of  all ;  a 
rich,  portly  merchant,  with  his  faded,  sickly  wife, 
five  naughty  boys,  the  torment  of  the  whole  com 
pany,  wrhose  principal  diversions  consisted  in  slid- 


156  LILIAN. 

ing  on  the  deck  across  the  line  of  promenaders, 
and  in  giving  to  their  mother  and  the  other  ner 
vous  ladies  in  the  saloon,  fictitious  accounts  of  ice 
ahead,  mutinies  among  the  stokers,  fires  just  dis 
covered  in  the  hold,  leaks  rapidly  gaining  head 
way,  and  passengers  crushed  in  the  machinery ; 
whilst  their  eldest  sister,  a  hard-featured  girl  of 
sixteen  with  a  premature  sense  of  responsibility, 
wasted  her  existence  in  the  fruitless  attempt  to 
make  her  brothers  behave  like  little  gentlemen  ; 
a  fair-haired  American,  always  ill  at  sea,  who 
had  linked  her  fate  to  that  of  a  French  travel 
ling-agent,  compelled  by  his  occupation  to  make 
incessant  voyages,  and  who  moaningly  followed 
her  lord  over  the  world  like  a  sick  spaniel ;  an 
anxious  mother  with  a  family  of  young  daughters 
and  a  strong-minded  governess  with  short  black 
curls  and  an  elastic  step,  who  practised  her  Ital 
ian  in  conversation  with  the  wife  of  a  Genoese 
macaroni-maker,  returning  crestfallen  from  an 
unsuccessful  attempt  to  establish  a  succursale  in 
America,  when  not  engaged  in  supervising  the 
eldest  daughter,  a  blonde  of  seventeen  with  reg 
ular  features,  regular  movements,  and  regular 
expression,  whose  only  recreation  consisted  in 
walking  up  and  down  that  part  of  the  deck  most 


LILIAN.  157 

directly  under  mamma's1  and  the  governess'  joint 
observation,  when  any  daring  youth  offered  his 
arm  for  the  promenade ;  while  the  second  daugh 
ter,  a  brunette,  with  full,  quiet  lips,  watchful  eyes 
and  broad  forehead,  was  devouring  in  secret  "  By 
ron  "  and  "  George  Sand,"  which  she  had  smug 
gled  on  board  in  her  capacious  travelling-bag  ;  and 
the  third  daughter,  a  beautiful  little  gypsy  of  eight, 
was  set  aside  as  "  nothing  but  a  child,"  and  left 
free  to  receive  the  adoration  of  the  gentlemen  in 
general,  when  not  occupied  with  the  danseuse ;  a 
knot  of  fast  young  men,  weak-kneed,  mottle-faced, 
with  very  tight  French  boots  and  very  loose  Eng 
lish  coats  and  trousers,  voting  America  slow,  and 
bound  for  the  hells,  coulisses^  and  bal  masques 
of  Paris  ;  a  blear-eyed  banker,  worn  out  with  the 
care  of  his  own  and  other  people's  money,  haunt 
ed  by  alternate  fears  of  beggary  and  of  softening 
of  the  brain  ;  wonderful  women  from  the  far 
Southwest,  who  breakfasted  in  flounced  silks 
and  gold  bracelets,  and  changed  their  dress  five 
times  a  day,  escorted  by  dark,  roughly-attired 
men  whose  sole  occupation  consisted  in  smoking 
and  betting.  Old  and  young,  rich  and  poor,  re 
fined  and  vulgar,  sick  and  well,  all  mixed  together 
in  involuntary  contact  and  unwilling  intercourse, 


158  LILIAN. 

a  menagerie  of  human  beings  with  but  one  feeling 
in  unison,  the  desire  to  reach  the  end  of  the  voy- 


XLVII. 

THE  sky  was  gray.  The  wind  rushed  across 
the  shining,  neutral  -  tinted  white -crested  waves, 
and  howled  and  lamented  amid  the  rigging.  The 
vessel  rolled  and  pitched  heavily  with  straining 
engines  and  slowly-revolving  wheels.  The  prom- 
enaders  one  after  another  gave  up  their  unsteady 
occupation  and  retreated  below,  or  sat  dismally 
on  the  wet  settees  looking  round  in  vain  for  a 
break  in  the  sullen  uniformity  of  the  leaden  sky. 
A  few  ladies  wrapped  in  heavy  cloaks  and  hoods 
still  braved  the  drizzling  rain.  The  danseuse, 
surrounded  by  a  group  of  water-proof  admirers, 
maintained  her  accustomed  place  at  the  end  of 
the  deck.  As  the  drops  grew  larger  and  heav 
ier,  she  reluctantly  arose  to  seek  the  shelter  of  the 
saloon.  Refusing  the  offered  arms  of  her  attend 
ants,  she  made  her  way  along  the  slippery  deck. 
A  heavy  wave  struck  the  vessel, — it  lurched 
violently.  The  girl  fell,  and  was  dashed  against 
a  settee.  A  piercing  scream  mingled  with  the 


LILIAN.  159 

rattling  revolution  of  the  great  wheel  as  it  hung 
suspended  high  out  of  the  water.  As  the  vessel 
righted  the  gentlemen  pressed  around  the  dan- 
seuse. 

"  Ah  ne  me  touchez  pas,  ne  me  touchez  pas, 
pour  1'amour  de  Dieu,"  she  shrieked  as  they 
sought  to  raise  her. 

"  Yes,  do  see  what's  the  matter  with  the  poor 
thing,"  said  Lilian  anxiously,  as  Mr.  Clinton  rose 
from  the  settee  beside  her. 

He  mingled  an  instant  with  the  group,  then 
hastily  descended  the  cabin-stairs.  He  returned 
with  the  surgeon.  The  group  grew  larger. 
Smothered  cries  came  from  its  midst,  then  it 
opened  and  several  men  precipitated  themselves 
down  the  stairway.  Mr.  Clinton  came  back  to 
Lilian. 

"  The  poor  girl's  hip  is  dislocated.  They  are 
going  to  bring  a  mattress  and  take  her  down  to 
the  saloon  to  set  it  there." 

"  May  I  ?  "  asked  Lilian,  rising  quickly. 

"  Yes,  it  would  be  kind."  And  Mr.  Clinton 
gave  his  arm  and  led  his  wife  towards  the  group 
which  opened  deferentially  at  her  approach. 

On  the  wet  deck  lay  the  half-fainting  girl.  Lil 
ian  knelt  beside  her  with  gentle,  pitying  words. 


160  LILIAN. 

The  danseuse  opened  her  eyes  and  looked  up 
wonderingly  for  a  moment,  then  with  a  groan, 
closed  them  again. 

The  mattress  was  brought.  Shrinking  and 
moaning  the  girl  was  carefully  lifted  upon  it, 
.carried  down  the  narrow  stairs  into  the  great 
saloon  and  laid  upon  the  table.  The  company 
rose  en  masse.  The  lamps  already  lighted  shone 
brightly  down  upon  the  girl's  pallid  face  and 
black  clustering  hair  which,  disarranged  by  her 
fall,  fell  loose  over  her  shoulders. 

"  Passengers  will  be  so  good  as  to  leave  the 
saloon,"  said  the  surgeon,  looking  around.  In 
a  moment  the  great  room  was  deserted  save  by 
those  in  immediate  attendance  upon  the  sufferer. 

As  the  company  retired,  the  stooping,  hungry- 
eyed  old  father  entered  and  came  hobbling  up 
the  saloon. 

"  Ah,  la  pauvre  mignonne  !  "  he  whined  as  he 
reached  the  group  around  the  table. 

The  girl's  lids  suddenly  lifted.  She  launched 
at  him  a  look  of  hate,  and  turned  her  head  away. 

"  Now,"  said  the  surgeon,  "  if  you,  Madam,  on 
one  side,  and  you,  stewardess,  on  the  other,  will 
hold  her  hands  tightly,  we  are  ready  to  begin." 

As  the  girl  felt  the  hands  around  tighten  on 


LILIAN.  161 

her  shoulders  and  limbs,  she  fixed  her  affrighted 
eyes  on  Lilian's  face. 

"  Oh  don't  let  them  kill "  —  a  prolonged 
shriek  filled  out  the  sentence.  There  was  a  dull 
sound,  and  the  surgeon  raised  his  head  and  tossed 
back  his  hair.  A  deep  groan  followed  the  shriek. 
The  girl  had  fainted  away. 

"  Nothing  to  be  alarmed  at,  Madam,"  said  the 
surgeon  to  Lilian,  who  looked  almost  as  pale  as 
the  sufferer.  "  Patients  often  faint  under  it.  It's 
a  rather  severe  operation.  We  had  better  get  her 
into  her  state-room  before  she  comes  to." 

The  insensible  form  was  carried  away,  the  old 
father  following,  whining,  "  pauvre  mignonne  !  " 

In  a  few  minutes  the  stewardess  returned. 

"  I  know  it's  too  much  to  ask,  ma'am,  but  I 
can't  undress  her  alone,  and  none  of  the  other 
ladies  would  come  near  her  if  I  asked  them.  If 
you  would  be  so  very  kind." 

Lilian  preceded  her  to  the  state-room.  As 
she  turned  the  handle  she  heard  a  harsh,  rasping 
voice  within. 

"  Fille  maudite  !  " 

She  entered.  The  creeping  old  father  stood  be 
side  the  child. 

"  Ah  ga,  ch^rie,  ga  va  mieux,  n'est  ce  pas  ?  " 

14* 


162  LILIAN. 

The  girl's  cheeks  were  flushed.  A  look  of  de 
fiance  was  on  her  face. 

"  Madame  est  mille  fois  trop  aimable."  And, 
with  a  cringing  salutation,  the  old  man  left  the 
room. 

Carefully  they  cut  apart  and  removed  the  girl's 
clothing.  As  they  came  to  the  inner  garments, 
they  perceived  a  narrow  belt  of  sackcloth  sewed 
firmly  around  her  waist.  Wondering,  Lilian  was 
preparing  to  cut  it  open,  when  the  girl  hastily 
prevented  her. 

"  Ah  no,  Madame.  I  promised  my  mother  al 
ways  to  wear  it." 

Still  more  surprised,  for  she  had  never  thought 
of  danseuses  as  people  that  had  any  mothers,  Lil 
ian  continued  her  offices  till  the  girl  was  disrobed, 
the  surgeon  again  summoned,  and  the  injured 
limb  arranged  as  comfortably  as  circumstances 
would  permit. 

"  May  the  Holy  Virgin  reward  you,  Madame," 
said  the  danseuse  fervently,  as  Lilian  bade  her 
good-night. 

She  rejoined  Mr.  Clinton  with  whom  the  sur 
geon  was  conversing. 

"  Yes,  a  most  unfortunate  thing.  She  will  have 
a  great  deal  to  suffer  for  want  of  proper  care.  The 


LILIAN.  163 

stewardess  can't  give  her  the  necessary  attention, 
it's  impossible." 

"  What  care  is  necessary?  "  asked  Lilian. 

"  There's  nothing  more  to  be  done  for  the  leg 
at  present,  of  course,  but  she  ought  to  have  some 
one  by  her  the  whole  time  to  tend  her  and  nurse 
her.  But  there's  a  patient  waiting  for  me.  I 
must  go.  One  of  those  five  boys  will  be  quiet  for 
some  time  to  come.  He's  eaten  himself  ill.  I've 
a  great  mind  to  keep  him  in  his  berth  till  we 
land." 

And  the  surgeon  bowed  himself  off. 

Lilian  repeated  to  Mr.  Clinton  all  that  she  had 
heard  and  seen  in  the  danseuse's  state-room. 

"  I  never  before  supposed  that  any  of  those 
people  could  be  respectable,  but  there  is  some 
thing  about  that  girl  that  interests  me  very 
much,"  and  she  paused  thoughtfully ;  then  as 
one  coming  to  a  sudden  determination,  she  looked 
up  with  pleading  eyes.  "It  is  dreadful  to  think 
of  her  suffering  for  want  of  proper  attention  dur 
ing  these  next  few  days !  If  you  were  willing  I 
should  be  so  glad  to  take  care  of  her !  "  And 
she  watched  his  face. 

It  was  some  moments  before  Mr.  Clinton  an 
swered  ;  at  length,  — 


164  LILIAN. 

"  You  shall  do  as  you  wish,"  he  replied.  And, 
to  the  measureless  astonishment  of  all  on  board, 
Mrs.  Clinton  took  her  place  as  the  sick  nurse  of 
the  danseuse. 

"  The  girl  can't  be  like  danseuses  in  general," 
said  the  world  of  the  steamer.  "  The  Clintons 
must  know  something  about  her  respectability,  or 
so  very  fastidious  a  person  as  Mr.  Clinton  would 
never  allow  his  wife  to  be  with  her  a  moment. 
Very  kind  of  Mrs.  Clinton,  certainly.  I  think 
I  shall  send  and  ask  how  the  girl  is  to-day." 


XLVIII. 

DURING  the  first  days  of  Lilian's  attendance, 
her  charge  maintained  an  invincible  reserve. 
She  seemed  overwhelmed  with  constraint.  Lil 
ian  would  sometimes  catch  her  eye  fastened  wist 
fully  upon  her,  but  it  was  immediately  averted. 

At  length  the  girl  broke  silence.  Lilian  was 
standing  at  her  feet,  rubbing  the  benumbed  and 
aching  limb.  She  looked  up  and  met  the  wist 
ful  gaze.  She  smiled  encouragingly.  The  smile 
seemed  to  unlock  the  girl's  lips. 

"  Ah,  Madame,"  she  exclaimed,  "  if  I  could 
tell  you  how  I  thank  you  !  You  do  my  heart 


LILIAN.  165 

as  much  good  with  your  gentle  looks  as  you  do 
my  poor  leg  with  your  soft  hands.  It  is  years 
since  any  one  has  looked  on  me  with  anything 
but  contempt.  It  has  crushed  me  into  the  dust. 
And  yet  what  wrong  thing  have  I  done  ?  "  she 
spoke  hurriedly  and  excitedly.  "Is  it  my  fault 
that  I  was  forced  on  to  the  stage,  that  I  am 
dragged  over  the  world  from  one  city  to  another 
by  that  wretch,  my  father  ?  Ah,  Madame,  if 
you  only  knew  how"  wretched  I  am,  and  how 
happy  I  was  with  my  mother,  —  Oh,  my  mother, 
my  mother  !  "  And  the  girl  burst  into  a  passion 
of  tears. 

Lilian,  much  moved,  attempted  to  console  her. 

"  Oh  let  me  cry.  It  does  me  good.  It  is  so 
long  since  I  have  shed  a  tear."  And  she  wept 
long  and  freely. 

"  Would  it  distress  you  to  tell  me  about  your 
self?  "  said  Lilian,  when  the  girl  was  calmer. 

"  Oh  no,  Madame,"  she  replied  gratefully. 
u  It  would  be  a  comfort  to  me.  I  am  so  lonely. 
I  should  like  to  feel  that  there  was  one  person  in 
the  world  who  knew  how  unhappy  I  am. 

"  My  mother  was  the  femme  de  chambre  to  an 
old  lady  in  Paris.  I  was  brought  up  in  a  con 
vent  till  I  was  twelve.  I  was  happy  there.  The 


166  LILIAN. 

nuns  were  very  kind  to  me.  They  used  to  give 
me  pictures  of  the  little  Jesus,  and  ask  me  if  I 
should  not  like  to  be  his  little  bride.  I  had  a 
picture  of  Saint  Catherine,  being  married  to  the 
little  Jesus,  hanging  up  in  my  room.  They  told 
me  that  the  world  was  a  dreadful  place,  and  that 
if  I  left  the  convent  I  should  have  to  work  hard 
all  my  life,  and  that  I  should  most  likely  grieve 
the  little  Jesus  so  that  he  would  love  me  no  more, 
and  that  I  should  never  go  to  heaven.  So  I  told 
my  mother  once,  when  she  came  to  see  me,  that  I 
had  made  up  my  mind  that  I  wanted  to  stay  in 
the  convent  and  be  a  nun.  Two  or  three  days 
after  that  she  came  back  and  took  me  away.  I 
was  very  sorry,  and  the  nuns  were  very  angry.  I 
cried,  but  they  comforted  me  by  telling  me  that 
when  I  was  older  I  could  come  back  and  be  a 
nun,  whether  my  mother  liked  it  or  not. 

"  My  mother  took  me  to  the  old  lady's  house. 
I  found  that  she  had  told  her  that  she  must  leave 
her  service  and  take  a  room  where  she  could  have 
me  with  her.  The  old  lady  said  that  she  could 
not  let  her  go  away,  and  that  she  might  bring 
me  there,  only  I  must  be  very  quiet  and  make  no 
noise. 

"  When  we  arrived  at   the  house,  my  mother 


LILIAN.  167 

took  me  through  a  great  many  rooms  into  a  large, 
gkiomy  chamber  where  the  old  lady  lay  in  bed. 
The  bed  had  great  high  posts  and  was  hung  with 
faded  tapestry.  There  was  a  black  crucifix  with 
an  ivory  Christ  hanging  by  the  head  of  the  bed. 
The  old  lady's  face  was  just  the  yellow  color  of 
the  Christ,  and  she  had  great  black  eyes  that 
looked  me  through.  I  was  afraid  of  them,  and 
hung  behind  my  mother.  She  led  me  forward  to 
kiss  the  old  lady's  hand,  and  she  told  her  how 
grateful  I  was.  Then  she  led  me  away,  and  I 
never  saw  the  old  lady  again. 

"  I  was  kept  all  day  long  in  a  room  looking  out 
into  a  court-yard,  and  I  had  a  great  deal  of  sew 
ing  given  me  to  do.  It  was  a  large,  bare  room 
lined  with  wardrobes  in  which  the  linen  was  kept. 
There  was  a  table  before  one  of  the  windows,  and 
two  chairs.  It  was  very  dismal.  My  mother 
was  all  day  long  in  the  old  lady's  room,  and  I 
had  nobody  to  speak  to.  I  used  to  cry  and  wish 
myself  back  at  the  convent  twenty  times  a  day. 
My  only  diversion  was  in  looking  out  of  the  win 
dow.  On  the  opposite  side  of  the  court-yard  was 
a  long  row  of  windows  that  lighted  a  great  hall. 
It  was  a  dancing-hall.  I  used  to  climb  upon  the 
table  before  the  window  and  watch  the  master 


168  LILIAN. 

giving  his  lessons.  There  were  a  great  many 
pupils,  and  it  used  to  amuse  me  very  much  to  see 
them  moving  all  in  time,  though  I  could  not  hear 
the  music.  There  was  one  pretty  little  girl  of 
about  my  own  age.  I  watched  her  most  of  all.  I 
wished  I  could  know  her  and  talk  to  her.  I  be 
came  quite  fond  of  her  by  looking  at  her  so  much. 
I  wanted  to  be  like  her.  I  used  to  arrange  my 
hair  as  she  did  hers.  I  tried  to  do  the  exercises 
that  she  did.  They  seemed  to  bring  me  nearer  to 
her.  I  grew  to  like  them  very  much.  I  became 
very  supple  and  strong.  I  used  to  dance  half  the 
time,  but  I  sewed  all  the  faster  when  I  did  sew, 
and  always  had  my  work  finished  by  evening.  At 
last  I  could  do  all  the  exercises  better  than  the 
little  girl  I  liked,  better  than  all  the  rest.  I  could 
throw  my  foot  higher,  turn  on  my  toe  longer, 
and  bound  farther,  than  any  of  the  pupils.  I  prac 
tised  in  that  way  a  great  many  months,  but  nobody 
knew  how  I  spent  iny  time. 

"  At  length  the  old  lady  died,  and  my  mother 
took  a  little  /oom,  and  we  used  to  sew  together 
from  morning  till  night.  Then,  how  happy  I 
was  !  I  learned  how  good  my  mother  was.  I 
loved  her  with  my  whole  heart.  All  the  week 
we  used  to  sew  for  the  shops,  but  on  Sundays 


LILIAN.  169 

she  used  to  take  me  to  mass,  and  after  that  we 
used  to  walk  together.  She  always  bought  me 
a  bouquet  of  violets  on  Sundays.  I  used  to  look 
forward  to  it  all  through  the  week. 

"  We  lived  in  that  way  till  I  was  fifteen.  I  was 
tall  of  my  age.  My  mother  never  sent  me  out 
alone.  But  one  day  she  was  ill,  and  I  was  obliged 
to  carry  home  our  work  to  the  shop.  When  I 
came  home  I  found  my  mother  weeping.  The 
little  clock,  the  only  ornament  of  the  room,  was 
gone.  The  door  of  the  wardrobe  was  open  and 
the  things  scattered  over  the  floor.  I  said,  "Don't 
cry,  mamma,  I  will  run  for  the  ser gents  de  ville" 
She  shook  her  head.  She  couldn't  speak  at  first. 
At  length  she  sobbed  out,  '  Oh,  my  child,  no 
one  can  help  us,  nothing  can  be  done.  It  is  your 
father.'  I  never  knew  I  had  a  father  till  then. 
He  had  taken  all  our  little  savings,  and  was  gone ! 

"  We  changed  our  lodgings  and  tried  to  hide  our 
selves.  We  only  went  out  after  dark.  Our  pleas 
ant  walks  on  Sundays  were  ended.  We  lived  in 
constant  fear  at  first,  but  a  long  time  passed,  no 
one  came  to  trouble  us,  and  we  began  to  feel 
more  secure,  and  even  to  venture  out  by  daylight 
sometimes. 

"  One  Sunday  morning  my  mother  had  gone  to 

15 


170  LILIAN. 

buy  something  for  our  dinner.  I  was  feeling  very 
happy,  the  sun  shone  so  brightly  and  my  little 
bird  sang  so  loud,  and  I  began  to  dance  in  the 
middle  of  the  room.  I  had  made  a  long  pirouette 
and  was  standing  on  one  toe,  the  other  foot  higher 
than  my  head,  when  I  caught  sight  of  a  gray  head 
with  hungry  cunning  eyes  peeping  in  at  the  door. 
I  was  dreadfully  frightened,  and  ran  to  shut  it, 
but  the  man  pushed  it  open  and  came  towards 
me  with  his  hands  stretched  out,  saying,  4  Em- 
brasse  moi,  ma  petite.'  I  screamed  and  ran  into 
the  corner.  '  Comment  done,  tu  ne  veux  point 
embrasser  bea  pere  ?  '  he  said.  I  looked  at  him 
with  horror,  such, — such  as  I  feel  for  him  now. 
He  sat  down,  looked  at  me  from  head  to  foot,  and 
said,  nodding  his  head  at  me,  '  Tu  danses  joli- 
ment  bien.  Avec  toi  je  saurai  bien  me  tirer  d'em- 
barras.'  I  grew  more  frightened  every  moment. 
I  heard  my  mother  coming  up  the  stairs.  I  was 
running  to  the  door,  but  he  got  up  and  stood  in 
the  way.  '  Ah,  te  v'la,'  he  said,  as  she  came  in. 
She  let  her  basket  fall  and  sat  down  on  the  chair 
next  her.  '  Don't  be  frightened,'  he  said,  grin 
ning  at  her,  '  I  haven't  come  to  take  your  money. 
I've  come  to  take  her,'  and  he  pointed  at  me.  I 
gave  a  scream  and  ran  into  my  mother's  arms. 


LILIAN.  171 

'  Now  there's  no  use  in  distressing  yourselves  and 
acting  a  tragedy,'  lie  said.  '  That's  girl's  worth 
a  great  deal  of  money  to  me  and  I  mean  to  have 
her.'  '  What  are  you  going  to  do  with  her  ?  ' 
said  my  mother,  holding  me  close.  '  Put  her  on 
the  stage,  to  be  sure,'  he  replied.  All  we  could 
say  or  do  was  of  no  use.  He  carried  me  off  to  a 
theatre.  I  had  to  dance  before  a  great,  coarse, 
fat  man.  When  I  had  finished  he  said  I  should 
do  very  well  with  a  few  lessons,  and  my  father 
signed  some  papers  and  received  some  money. 
My  mother  and  I  cried  all  that  day.  The  next 
morning  my  father  came  and  took  me  to  the  the 
atre.  I  found  myself  among  such  girls  as  I  did 
not  know  existed.  I  heard  such  language  that  I 
was  ready  to  sink  into  the  ground.  They  were 
all  jealous  of  me  because  I  danced  better  than 
they  did.  Only  the  mistress  was  kind  to  me  and 
said  that  I  should  do  her  honor.  When  I  went 
home  I  told  my  father  that  I  would  not  go  again 
without  my  mother.  He  said  she  should  not  go 
there.  Then  I  would  not  eat.  I  fainted  away  at 
the  third  lesson,  and  my  father  had  to  give  in  and 
my  mother  went  with  me.  After  some  weeks  I 
made  my  debut.  They  put  on  me  a  dress  which 
was  cut  half  way  down  to  my  waist  and  came  up 


172  LILIAN. 

above  my  knees.  When  my  mother  looked  at  me 
she  cried  worse  than  ever.  The  woman  came  to 
rouge  me,  but  she  said  I  did  not  need  any.  My 
cheeks  were  burning,  I  was  so  ashamed.  I  was 
to  dance  a  pas  seuL  The  curtain  drew  up  and, 
I  saw  a  great  pink  wall  of  faces  before  me.  I 
was  so  frightened  that  I  could  not  move.  The 
music  began  three  times.  The  people  pitied  me 
I  suppose,  for  they  applauded  me  a  great  deal. 
That  gave  me  courage.  I  danced,  and  they  ap 
plauded  me  more  and  threw  me  bouquets.  When 
I  came  off  the  stage  I  ran  into  my  mother's  arms 
and  hid  my  face  in  her  neck.  I  felt  as  if  I  should 
die  of  shame  to  have  danced  in  that  dress  before 
all  those  people.  It  was  only  the  beginning.  I 
have  danced  so  ever  since. 

After  my  de*but  the  other  danseuses  were  more 
disagreeable  than  ever,  but  I  had  my  mother  and 
I  did  not  care.  A  great  many  gentlemen  came 
and  spoke  to  me  in  the  coulisses,  as  I  sat  beside 
my  mother,  but  I  would  never  look  up  or  answer 
them.  I  hated  it  all. 

My  father  did  not  give  us  any  of  the  money  I 
earned,  and  my  mother  had  to  work  very  hard, 
for  my  lessons  and  rehearsals  and  performances 
took  up  so  much  of  my  time  that  I  could  help 


LILIAN.  173 

her  but  little.  I  think  he  tried  to  make  her  work 
herself  to  death  that  he  might  be  free  of  her.  I 
hated  him,  —  Mon  Dieu,  how  I  hated  him,  how 
I  hate  him  now  !  "  And  she  clinched  her  hands. 
"  He  had  his  wish.  My  mother  grew  weaker  and 
weaker.  At  length  she  died.  Before  she  died, 
one  day  she  begged  me  always  to  wear  this 
belt  of  sackcloth  round  my  waist  to  remember 
the  blessed  Jesus  by,  and  she  said  it  would  also 
every  morning  and  evening  remind  me  of  her, 
praying  for  me  in  heaven.  So  she  sewed  it  on, 
—  she  was  so  weak  that  she  could  hardly  hold 
the  needle,  —  and  I  have  worn  it  ever  since.  A 
few  days  after,  she  died.  The  night  she  died 
my  father  made  me  dance. 

"  After  that  we  went  to  Italy,  and  I  danced  in 
the  great  cities.  The  public  was  pleased  with 
me,  and  we  began  to  live  at  large  hotels.  I  used 
to  drive  about  in  a  carriage,  and  I  had  a  maid. 
A  great  many  gentlemen  came  to  our  apart 
ments,  but  I  used  to  lock  myself  up  in  my  room, 
and  think  of  my  mother,  and  cry. 

"  One  night  I  came  from  the  theatre.  My  maid 
who  slept  in  my  room  when  I  was  wakeful  or 
restless,  was  not  waiting  to  undress  me.  My 
father  told  me  that  she  was  ill,  and  had  gone  to 

15* 


174  LILIAN. 

bed.  I  went  into  my  room  and  locked  the  door. 
On  the  table  stood  the  bread  and  wine  and  water 
that  I  used  always  to  take  before  I  went  to  bed. 
I  put  the  wine  and  water  to  my  lips.  It  had  a 
bitter  taste.  I  held  the  glass  up  to  the  light. 
There  was  a  white  powder  in  the  bottom.  I 
remembered  how  coaxing  my  father's  tone  had 
been  when  he  told  me  to  go  in  and  eat  my  sup 
per.  I  began  to  feel  afraid,  yet  I  knew  he  could 
not  want  to  poison  me  while  I  gained  money  for 
him.  I  felt  imprisoned.  I  wanted  to  get  out  of 
the  room.  I  threw  a  great  black  silk  mantle 
over  my  shoulders  so  that  passers-by  should  not 
notice  my  dress,  unfastened  the  shutters,  opened 
the  long  window,  and  stepped  out  upon  the  bal 
cony.  I  stayed  there  a  long  time,  it  was  so  fresh 
and  quiet  after  the  heated,  crowded  theatre,  and 
the  noise  of  the  music  and  applause.  I  stood 
leaning  on  the  stone  balustrade ;  then  I  began  to 
walk  up  and  down.  My  satin  shoes  made  no 
noise.  As  I  passed  my  father's  room  I  heard 
voices.  The  shutters  within  were  closed,  but  a 
chink  was  left  open.  An  impulse  led  me  to  look 
in.  Before  the  table  sat  my  father  and  a  tall 
red-faced  man,  —  a  great  nobleman  who  sent  me 
flowers  every  day  and  letters  that  I  never  opened. 


LILIAN.  175 

I  had  promised  my  mother  never  to  read  any 
such  letters.  I  put  my  ear  to  the  crack  of  the 
window.  I  heard,  —  I  cannot  tell  you  what  I 
heard.  For  a  moment  I  could  not  move.  The 
tall  man  rose.  The  motion  brought  back  my 
strength.  I  flung  myself  over  the  balcony,  it  was 
on  the  first  story,  suspended  myself  by  my  hands, 
and  dropped  into  the  street  below.  I  ran,  I 
knew  not  where.  My  only  idea  was  to  get  as 
far  away  as  possible.  It  was  long  past  midnight, 
the  streets  were  almost  deserted,  but,  as  I  passed 
a  turning,  a  party  of  young  men  caught  sight  of 
me.  They  shouted  and  pursued  me.  I  ran  like 
the  wind.  I  turned  a  corner  and  came  upon  a 
line  of  carriages.  The  coachmen  were  asleep 
upon  their  boxes.  I  opened  one  softly,  got  in, 
shut  the  door  and  crouched  down  on  the  floor. 
I  heard  the  young  men  run  past,  laughing  and 
hallooing.  I  stayed  there  all  night.  Every  time 
I  heard  a  step  I  feared  it  was  some  one  coming  to 
look  for  me.  All  night  I  thought  what  I  could 
do.  At  length  I  made  up  my  mind  that  there 
was  no  law  to  protect  me  from  my  father,  and 
that  I  must  protect  myself.  When  the  day 
came  I  went  back  to  the  hotel.  My  father  was 
out.  I  stood  up  and  waited  for  him  to  return. 


176  LILIAN. 

When  he  came  home  I  told  him  that  I  would  not 
live,  unless  I  could  continue  to  respect  myself.  I 
told  him  that  I  was  desperate,  and  so  I  was.  I  felt 
all  the  blood  in  my  body  singing  in  my  ears  as  I 
spoke  to  him.  I  began  to  think  I  had  better  kill 
myself  at  once  to  make  sure.  He  was  frightened. 
He  apologized,  he  entreated  my  forgiveness,  he  took 
the  most  solemn  oaths  never  again  to  offend  me  in 
any  way  ;  he  cringed  before  me.  How  I  loathed 
him  !  But  he  has  not  dared  to  break  his  word. 

"  Since  then  I  have  been  in  many  cities,  always 
applauded,  always  despised,  always  miserable.  In 
two  years  I  shall  be  of  age ;  then  I  shall  dance 
no  more,  and,  thanks  to  this  accident,  it  will  be 
long  before  I  can  dance  again.  It  will  free  me 
from  my  two  next  engagements. 

"  Oh,  Madame,  you  cannot  imagine  what  a  life 
it  is  !  To  have  no  friend,  —  to  be  a  slave.  Welt 
or  ill,  weary  or  strong,  it  makes  no  difference,  I 
must  dance  just  the  same.  And  the  exercises  are 
so  fatiguing,  that  I  have  to  go  through.  A  dan- 
seuse  cannot  skip  a  single  day,  else  she  must  prac 
tice  double  the  next.  And  the  dreadful  women 
I  am  obliged  to  meet.  It  makes  me  feel  as  if  I 
were  wicked  myself.  I  feel  so  old  already.  It  is 
only  two  years  since  my  mother  died,  and  I  feel 


LILIAN.  177 

as  if  it  were  twenty.  And  then  the  crowds  of 
gentlemen  who  come  around  me ;  the  speeches 
they  make  to  me.  Oh,  Madame,  you  do  not  know 
how  cruel  men  are !  "  And  the  girl  buried  her 
face  in  her  hands. 

Lilian  was  painfully  interested.  Were  there 
really  no  means  of  rescuing  the  girl  from  such  a 
position,  of  saving  her  from  the  hands  of  such  a 
father? 

"  How  are  you,  my  angel?"  whined  a  voice  at 
the  door,  and  the  old,  gray-headed  father  peered 
in.  The  girl  impatiently  turned  her  head  to  the 
wall,  and,  with  a  cringing  bow,  the  head  disap 
peared. 

When  Lilian  joined  her  husband  for  her  even 
ing  walk,  she  found  a  young  man,  of  open,  manly 
bearing,  deeply  engaged  in  conversation  with  him. 
He  broke  off  what  he  was  saying,  bowed  low,  and 
retired,  as  she  took  Mr.  Clinton's  arm. 

"  I  have  been  hearing  a  love-story,"  he  said. 
"  That  young  man  is,  to  all  appearance,  seriously 
in  love  with  your  charge.  He  has  never  seen  her 
on  the  stage.  He  has  fallen  in  love  with  her  on 
the  passage.  He  is  from  the  West.  He  says  that 
he  has  more  money  than  he  wants,  and  no  near 


178  LILIAN. 

relations  to  interfere  with  him,  and  he  has  made 
up  his  mind  to  marry  her,  if  she  will  have  him." 
"  Then  he  has  not  yet  offered  himself." 
"  He  can   find  no  opportunity.      He   does  not 
choose  to   apply  to  her  father;   he  says   that  he 
never  has  a  chance  to  speak  to  her   alone,  and 
that  she  sends  back  his  letters  unopened.     I  fancy 
that  he  desires  you  to  sound  her  inclinations." 

"  It  would  be  the  happiest  thing  in  the  world 
for  her  !  "  And  Lilian  related  the  girl's  story  to 
her  husband.  "  Tell  him  to  send  another  letter 
to-morrow  when  I  am  with  her,  and  I  will  see 
that  she  reads  it." 

As  Lilian  sat  the  next  morning  in  the  narrow 
state-room,  the  stewardess  appeared  with  a  letter 
in  her  hand. 

"  Take  it  back,"  said  the  girl,  angrily,  as  it  was 
handed  to  her. 

Lilian  took  it  from  the  stewardess  and  broke 
the  seal.  The  girl  gazed  at  her  in  mute  astonish 
ment,  as  she  quietly  read  it  through. 

"  There  is  nothing  here  that  your  mother  would 
not  wish  you  to  see,"  she  said,  as  she  finished  it. 
"  Read  it,"  and  she  gave  the  letter  into  the.  girl's 
hands,  and  left  her  alone. 


LILIAN.  179 

When  she  returned,  the  traces  of  tears  were  on 
the  danseuse's  cheek.  She  was  preoccupied  and 
anxious,  and  spoke  no  more. 

The  silence  was  broken  by  a  hurried  rush,  a 
cry,  "Land!" 

Lilian  started  to  her  feet,  and  met  Mr.  Clinton 
at  the  door.  They  joined  the  crowd  on  deck. 
The  sunlight  fell  gayly  on  the  animated  groups. 
Smiles  beamed  on  every  face.  Joyous  laughter 
and  exclamations  of  delight  filled  the  air.  One 
common  sentiment  of  pleasure  united  for  the 
moment  the  mass  of  human  beings  that  thronged 
the  decks,  mounted  the  settees,  clambered  on  the 
bulwarks,  and  stood  up  in  the  boats.  All  eyes 
were  fixed  on  a  low,  dark  line,  the  first  glimpse 
of  the  Old  World,  that  sight  so  deeply  exciting  to 
all  denizens  of  the  New.  An  unknown  parent  is 
about  to  receive  them. 

As  they  gaze,  a  new-born  sentiment  of  love 
and  gratitude  swells  within  them.  The  Mother 
Country  lies  before  them.  Their  hearts  beat 
quick.  Their  eyes  fill  with  tears.  With  falter 
ing  voice,  they  bid  God  bless  her ! 


180  LILIAN. 

XLIX. 

THE  sun  had  set  over  the  desolate  waste  of  the 
Campagna.  Vainly  Lilian  had  strained  her  eyes 
for  the  first  sight  of  the  vast  dome  towards  which 
they  were  pressing  on.  No  golden  cross  caught 
the  last  rays  of  the  sun,  holding  their  bright 
promise  high  above  the  surrounding  twilight.  No 
majestic  outline  rose  swelling  heavenward,  as  if 
upborne  by  the  great  heart  of  human  kind.  The 
darkness  came  shroud-like  down  from  the  cloudy 
sky,  and  covered  all  before  them  with  its  impen 
etrable  mystery. 

Nearer  and  nearer  to  the  unseen  city  they  drew. 
Thicker  and  thicker  grew  the  darkness.  Whence 
it  came  she  knew  not,  but  a  vague  dread  crept 
over  Lilian.  She  sat  closer  to  Mr.  Clinton.  She 
took  his  hand.  She  closed  her  eyes  and  strove  to 
lose  all  sense  of  anything,  save  the  touch  that  met 
hers. 

A  sudden  shock,  as  they  passed  over  some 
obstacle,  threw  her  to  the  opposite  side  of  the 
carriage.  As  she  unclosed  her  eyes,  they  rested 
upon  ghost-like,  serried  ranks  of  gigantic  columns, 
planted  in  darkness,  supporting  darkness.  A  cold 
wind,  as  of  the  tomb,  breathed  from  their  recesses, 


LILIAN.  181 

and  brought  the  sound  of  rushing  waters  to  her 
ears.  Did  she  fancy  that  it  syllabled,  "  Return  ?" 
Was  that  a  form,  indistinct  and  misty,  that  glided 
beneatli  the  colonnade,  waving  them  back  ;  or  was 
it  but  the  flitting  shadows  moving  as  they  passed 
by?  Lilian's  heart  quivered.  She  grasped  the 
hand  she  held  as  if  seeking  protection  against  her 
own  imaginings. 

Through  long,  dark,  tortuous  streets  they  passed. 
At  length,  in  a  broad  piazza,  the  horses  halted. 
The  impatient  beat  of  the  hurrying  hoofs,  the  im 
portunate  rattle  of  the  wheels  ceased.  As  Mr. 
Clinton  lifted  Lilian  to  the  ground,  through  the 
night  and  stillness  mournfully  sinking,  came  the 
sound  of  a  convent  bell. 


L. 

THE  morning  sun  shone  upon  Rome,  the  Silent 
City,  the  City  of  Eternal  Repose.  Its  countless 
domes  and  cupolas  rose  against  the  dark  blue  of 
the  sky,  their  golden  crosses  glittering  in  the  light. 
The  yellow  moss  upon  the  tiled  roofs,  the  rich, 
creamy  stone  walls  of  the  buildings,  basked  life 
lessly  in  the  warm  rays.  Motionless  the  white 
clouds  that  flecked  the  deep  azure  above,  hung 

16 


182  LILIAN. 

over  the  motionless  city  below.  An  atmosphere 
of  still  decay,  irresistible,  unresistecl,  brooded  over 
all  things.  The  sunlight,  how  heavy  it  was  !  It 
weighed  down  that  whereon  it  rested.  The  shad 
ows,  how  black  they  were !  They  swallowed  up 
all  whereon  they  fell.  No  sound  pulsed  through 
the  stirless  air,  save  when,  from  time  to  time,  the 
long-drawn,  melancholy  cry  of  some  itinerant 
vender  rose  from  the  narrow  streets;  or  some  rude 
cart,  drawn  by  yoked  buffaloes  with  heavy  curved 
horns,  and  lowering,  savage  eyes,  or  by  gigantic, 
patient,  whitish-gray  oxen,  conducted  by  a  swar 
thy  contadino,  would  labor  by.  Silently  the  rare 
passers  glided  along,  like  unreal  figures.  All 
things  seemed  unreal  to  Lilian.  She  almost 
doubted  her  own  existence. 

Seated  beside  Mr.  Clinton,  she  drove  through 
the  sad,  silent  streets  towards  the  villa  which  was 
to  be  their  winter  home.  They  passed  ruined 
palaces,  whose  stately  fagades  and  princely  portals 
contrasted  harshly  with  their  dismantled  windows 
and  broken  balconies,  —  deserted  churches,  peo 
pled  by  statues  only,  their  open  gates  vainly  in 
viting  entrance,  —  fountains,  whose  changing  tor 
rents  were  the  only  things  unchanged  since  the 


LILIAN.  183 

great  aqueducts  first  led  their  crystal  streams  away 
from  their  homes  among  the  hills,  —  through 
grass-grown  wastes,  with  here  and  there  a  capital, 
—  an  unformed  heap  of  ruin, — by  which  golden- 
tinted  children,  with  crimson  lips  and  flashing 
eyes,  played  at  the  morra,  as  did  of  old  their  sol 
dier  sires  in  their  camp  before  the  barbarians, — 
while  wrinkled  beldames,  seated  on  the  ground, 
twirled  the  distaff,  and  watched  the  few  scattered, 
browsing  goats  ;  past  crumbling  piles,  —  funereal 
monuments,  —  preaching  their  mournful  homilies 
to  the  unrecking  wind,  which  toyed  the  while 
with  the  wild  flowers  that  stood  triumphant  where 
once  armed  men  might  vainly  seek  to  win.  And 
all  was  beautiful,  —  beautiful  in  its  sadness,  beauti 
ful  in  its  decay.  A  charm,  faint,  sorrowful,  lin 
gering,  lay  over  all  things,  —  the  enchanted  spell 
of  Rome. 

They  drew  up  before  a  lofty  old  mansion, 
frowning  in  melancholy  grandeur  on  the  grass- 
grown  street  below*  As  the  ponderous  bronze 
knocker  smote  on  the  heavily-studded  gates, 
arousing  a  host  of  clamorous  echoes,  they  swung 
slowly  open,  and  Mr.  Clinton  conducted  Lilian 
into  a  broad,  gloomy  stone  entrance  hall.  The 


184  LILIAN. 

iron-barred  gates  closed  behind  her  with  a  jarring 
clash.  Before  her,  on  the  opposite  side  of  the 
hall,  opened  another  ample  portal,  showing  a  vast 
garden  beyond.  Between  her  and  its  velvet 
sweeps  of  green,  its  rich  luxuriance  of  perfumed 
flowers,  its  pleasant,  silver-tinkling  fountains,  its 
grateful  shade  of  stately  spreading  pines  and  bend 
ing  trees,  stood,  glittering  white  in  the  sunlight,  a 
richly -sculptured  marble  sarcophagus.  A  cold 
breath  seemed  to  issue  from  it,  and  strike  on  Lil 
ian's  heart.  And  yet  it  was  but  an  empty  sarcoph 
agus,  richly  wrought,  glittering  in  the  sunlight. 
The  form  it  had  enclosed,  once  tenderly  deposited 
there  with  chanted  prayers  and  solemn  sacrifice, 
had  melted  into  dust  thousands  of  years  gone  by. 
The  tears  once  shed  over  it  had  been  dried  ages 
ago.  Long  centuries  had  passed  since  the  mourn 
ers  who  once  surrounded  it  had  gone  into  the  land 
of  shadows,  wept  in  their  turn  by  those  who  again 
had  followed  on  the  same  spectral  journey.  It 
was  a  waif  of  the  past,  brought  from  its  resting- 
place  to  ornament  a  garden.  .  What  had  it  to  do 
with  her? 

"  The  air  here  is  too  cold  for  you,"  said  Mr. 
Clinton,  as  she  paused  with  arrested  step.  "  Come 
into  the  garden."  He  drew  her  on.  "  What  a 


LILIAN.  185 

magnificent  sarcophagus!  I  never  saw  a  finer." 
And  he  led  her  close  to  it. 

The  figures  which  surrounded  it  were  dancing 
in  gay  revel.  Youths  crowned  with  ivy  garlands, 
maidens  with  floating  robes,  musicians  with  pipes 
and  flutes,  all  sculptured  with  lifelike  energy. 
As  Lilian  gazed  upon  it,  the  undefined  dread 
which  had  crept  over  her,  died  away.  What  was 
there,  in  truth,  to  disquiet  her?  And  yet,  if  she 
turned  her  eyes  from  it,  she  shrank  when  she 
looked  back.  She  could  reason  away  her  uneasi 
ness,  but  it  lay  in  ambush,  waiting  till  she  was 
off  her  guard,  to  return. 

They  turned  from  the  empty  marble  shell,  and 
sauntered  down  the  broad  terrace  which  lay  be 
neath  the  sunny  southern  wall  of  the  building, 
bordered  by  alternate  orange -trees,  with  their 
dark,  shining  leaves,  and  by  old  marble  statues, 
gray  and  time -stained.  Here  and  there  they 
passed  a  jet  of  sparkling  water,  spouting'  from  an 
antique  mask,  and  falling  into  a  mossy  basin,  in 
whose  limpid  cup  gold  and  silver  fishes  swam  glit 
tering,  in  slow,  unending  circles.  Little  green 
lizards,  roused  by  unaccustomed  steps,  darted 
across  the  gravelled  path  and  flashed  up  the  wall, 
disappearing  in  some  invisible  crevice.  Stately 

16* 


186  LILIAN. 

peacocks  watched  them  from  ancient  balustrades 
of  stone,  and,  at  their  approach,  arched  their  pur 
ple  throats,  lifting  their  jewelled  fans,  resplendent 
in  the  sunlight,  and  dropping  their  gleaming  wings. 
On  the  little  lake,  white  swans,  like  silver  images, 
rested  motionless,  reflected  on  the  unruffled  surface 
of  the  placid  waters. 

No  breeze  disturbed  the  foliage,  no  sound  of 
life  obtruded  on  the  ear.  The  gentle  music  of 
falling  waters  seemed  but  to  make,  the  silence  more 
profound.  All  breathed  a  still,  luxurious  repose. 
Lilian  sighed  with  pleasure. 

"Here  I  could  dream  my  life  away,"  she  said. 

"  You  are  my  dream,"  replied  her  husband,  as 
he  placed  her  on  an  antique  seat,  and  threw  him 
self  on  the  ground  at  her  feet,  looking  up  at  her 
face  with  eyes  whose  look  of  love  was  to  her  as 
Heaven  itself. 

"And  you  will  be  happy  here?"  he  half 
queried,  wishful  again  to  hear  her  speak  her 
pleasure. 

For  all  response,  she  bent  and  kissed  his  fore 
head.  As  she  raised  her  head  from  the  caress, 
through  the  dark  shining  leaves,  across  the  placid 
waters,  she  caught  the  gleam  of  the  white  sarcoph- 


LILIAN.  187 

LI. 

As  the  winter  passed  on,  the  undefined  dread 
which  from  time  to  time  swept  over  her  was  the! 
only  jarring  string  in  the  golden  harp  of  Lilian's 
life.  Her  impressionable,  emotional  nature,  stim 
ulated  by  all  around  her,  developed  into  new  depth 
and  richness.  With  interlaced  arm,  she  stood 
beside  her  husband,  on  that  wreck-strewn  islet  in 
the  sea  of  time.  Each  wave,  as  it  broke  at  their 
feet,  brought  to  her  ear  a  confused  murmur  of 
mighty  names,  mingled  with  distant  battle-cries, 
with  shouts  of  victory,  with  imprecations  of  down 
trodden  multitudes,  with  death  groans  of  slaugh 
tered  hosts.  On  the  dark  waters  of  the  mighty, 
all-engulfing  ocean  before  them,  rose  the  tower- 
girt  marble  city,  with  its  House  of  Gold,  its 
palaces  of  delights,  its  crystal  waters,  its  pleasant 
gardens,  its  lofty  porticos,  its  columned  temples, 
its  circling  theatres,  —  all  sculptured  fair  in  the 
phantom  light  of  fancy.  Then,  while  she  gazed, 
the  spectral  pile  would  sink,  fall,  crumble  into 
nothingness,  again  to  reappear,  again  to  vanish, 
in  ever -shifting  variation.  Nothing  was  stable, 
nothing  secure  on  that  changeful  flood. 

So,  day  by  day,  she  mused  among  the  ruins, 


188  LILIAN. 

she  pondered  amid  the  shadows  on  the  shore  of 
the  past,  learning  the  world's  great  lesson  of  the 
unreality  of  material  things,  —  the  shortness*  of 
life,  the  nothingness  of  time. 

Her  love  borrowed  a  more  poignant  sweetness, 
a  sharper  delight,  a  keener  ecstasy,  from  the  im 
pending  shadow  of  Death  and  Desolation.  The 
sad  luxury  of  sentiment  and  sensation,  —  which  is 
the  breath  of  Italian  existence,  —  penetrated  her 
whole  being.  A  languid,  delicious  fragrance 
breathed  from  her;  her  step  became  slower,  her 
motion  more  undulating,  her  voice  lower,  her  eyes 
more  deeply  luminous.  A  perpetual  moonlight 
seemed  to  rest  upon  her,  sweeter  than  starlight, 
softer  than  the  sun. 

Mr.  Clinton  felt,  yet  could  hardly  deplore  the 
change.  True,  Lilian's  lips  laughed  no  longer, 
but  never  had  their  smile  been  so  entrancing, 
never  had  they  so  frequently  sought  his  own. 
Her  eyes  shone  with  a  less  brilliant  radiance,  but 
in  their  liquid  depths  he  saw  his  own  image  more 
tenderly  reflected.  Her  whole  existence,  softened 
into  pensive  acquiescence,  seemed  melting  into 
his. 

He  had  thought   before   that   he  loved  her  as 


LILIAN.  189 

much  as  he  was  capable  of  loving,  but  now  his 
feeling  towards  his  wife  deepened  into  painful  in 
tensity.  His  desire  for  her  happiness  was  no 
longer  a  sentiment,  it  became  a  passion  in  itself. 
Her  pleasure  grew  into  the  hourly  study,  the 
exclusive  object  of  his  life.  All  the  stores  of  his 
varied  knowledge  were  spread  open  before  her; 
all  the  treasures  of  his  artistic  criticism  unfolded 
to  her  ;  all  the  curious  antiquarian  lore  he  had 
gathered  in  his  many  travels  displayed  to  interest 
her. 

With  gentle  guidance,  he  led  her  through 
Rome's  palaces  of  Art,  —  those  treasure-houses 
of  unimaginable  beauty.  A  new,  glorious  world 
opened  before  her, — a  world  of  repose,  of  majesty, 
of  loveliness,  awful,  ineffable,  —  the  world  of  Clas 
sic  Art.  And  as  she  reverent  stood  and  gazed, 
she  felt  all  human  passion,  all  shadow  of  grief, 
all  memory  of  pain,  sink  into  silence  before  the 
ur approachable  sublimity,  the  divine  grandeur, 
which  fill  those  soundless  temples.  Stately  they 

% 

stand,  and  still,  those  ancient,  godlike  forms.  A 
deathless  life  is  in  their  nostrils,  a  changeless  con 
templation  in  their  unswerving  eyes.  Empires 
have  risen  and  fallen  around  their  pedestals,  ages 
have  swept  away  the  wreck  of  ages,  the  genera- 


190  LILIAN. 

tions  of  men  in  countless  succession  have  defiled 
before  them,  yet  still  they  stand  serene,  unmoved. 
Their  marble  faces  look  down  on  us  as  erst  on 
the  lono; -vanished  masters  of  the  world.  The 

& 

strifes,  the  cares,  the  birth,  the  death  of  men  con 
cern  them  not.  Their  life  is  not  as  ours,  —  they, 
the  Immortals  of  the  earth. 

With  lingering,  oft -returning  step  she  passed 
through  pictured  halls  and  storied  fanes,  wherein 
the  lives  of  great  men  have  been  wrought  to 
tapestry  with  thought  the  cold,  bare  walls.  The 
awful  vision  of  Michael  Angelo  scowled  at  her 
from  the  Sistine  Chapel.  The  soft,  bewitching 
grace  of  Raphael  smiled  from  the  canvas,  as  she 
stood  entranced.  On  the  sweet  majesty  of  An 
drea,  on  the  transparent  lusciousness  of  Titian,  on 
the  thoughtful  grandeur  of  Domenichino,  on  the 
pathetic  sweetness  of  Guido,  on  the  childlike 
charm  of  Correggio,  on  the  rich  voluptuousness  of 
Paul  Veronese,  on  the  grave  earnestness  of  Pous- 
sin,  on  the  learned  refinement  of  Leonardo,  on  the 
long  succession  of  the  masters  of  past  times,  she 
gazed  with  ever  new  delight. 

In  those  vast  palaces,  those  dwellings  of  van 
ished  state,  rich  with  the  spoils,  filled  with  the 
trophies  of  the  past,  she  spent  long  hours  of  each 


LILIAN.  191 

succeeding  day,  drinking  in  beauty  as  flowers 
drink  sunlight.  All  about  them  was  delightful  to 
her;  —  their  proud  facades,  conscious  of  fallen 
estate,  yet  still  holding  a  bold  front  against  decay; 
their  ruined  court-yards,  grass-grown  and  paved 
with  broken  stones;  their  slowly -trickling  foun 
tains,  green  with  velvet  moss ;  their  rows  of  muti 
lated  busts,  sadly  looking  down  from  their  open, 
deserted  galleries  ;  their  deeply-worn,  broad,  stone 
staircases,  ascending  through  half-obliterated  fres 
coes  to  the  widely -cracked,  carved,  and  gilded 
doors ;  their  long  vistas  of  silent  halls,  with  their 
once  gayly- painted  ceilings  now  toned  to  dim 
shade;  their  marble  floors,  once  trod  by  the  stately 
company  whose  fading  portraits  look  down  from 
the  walls;  their  ancient,  black -spotted  mirrors, 
which  reflected  the  pomp  and  pride  of  lighted  fes 
tival,  and  whose  tarnished  surfaces  now  give  back 
but  the  outline  of  some  chance  stranger  from 

O 

foreign  lands.  Into  these  desolate  halls,  beggared 
of  all  save  Art,  she  came  each  day,  and  gazed 
and  listened  to  the  loving,  learned  voice  beside 
her,  ever  pointing  new  beauties  to  her  quick,  ap 
proving  eye ;  ever  leading  her  through  the  human 
errors  of  execution  up  to  the  divinely -imparted 
conception,  —  teaching,  explaining,  sympathizing 


192  LILIAN. 

ever.  And  Lilian  listened,  and  learned,  and 
loved. 

As  they  drove  over  the  mournful  solitude  of  the 
Campagna,  he  would  guide  her  to  the  sites  of 
long-vanished  cities,  —  a  few  green  ridges  and  scat 
tered  bricks  alone  remaining  to  show  where  the 
first  crimson  footsteps  of  Rome's  victorious  march 
had  been  pressed,  —  and  build  again  for  her  their 
walls  and  citadels,  and  tell  her  of  their  valiant 
captains,  and  their  daring,  desperate  deeds,  before 
they  sank  at  last  beneath  the  strokes  of  their  in 
domitable,  vindictive  foe. 

Leaving  their  carriage,  they  would  wander  over 
the  sunny,  desolate  plain,  here  and  there  passing 
a  broken  column,  a  fragment  of  a  statue,  or  some 
crushed  pottery,  —  frail  relics  of  long-buried  house 
hold  life,  turned  up  by  the  lazy  plough  of  some 
half-clad  peasant,  who  stared  in  sullen  silence  as 
they  passed.  And  they  would  sit  upon  some 
grassy,  daisy-sprinkled  mound,  and  he  would  tell 
her  legends  of  old  Rome,  drawn  from  rare  manu 
scripts  in  monkish  piles  or  the  worm-eaten  pages 
of  some  forgotten  historian,  —  legends  perchance 
rejected  by  this  learned  age,  but  fresh  and  full  of 
human  interest,  clothing  dry  Latin  bones  with 
lusty  life,  filling  Time's  empty  vase  with  generous 


LILIAN.  193 

wine,  casting  the  glory  of  heroic  deeds  over  the 
wasted,  silent  battle -field,  stretching  so  bare,  so 
death-like  still  before  them. 

Then,  when  they  reached  their  home,  seated 
beside  him  on  the  stone  balcony  above  the  garden, 
overlooking  the  long  reach  of  the  Campagna,  she 
would  spend  hours  in  dreamy  revery,  half  uncon 
sciously  watching  the  long  rows  of  broken  aque 
ducts,  the  outlines  of  the  distant  hills,  the  gray 
walls  of  the  far-off  towns  nestling  in  their  rocky 
fastnesses,  till  the  changing  tints  of. molten  gold, 
of  Tynan  purple,  and  of  deepest  blue,  which  en 
veloped  the  distance  as  the  sun  went  down,  would 
warn  them  to  withdraw,  and  seek  the  shelter  of 
the  ancient  saloon  within. 

It  was  a  lofty  and  deep  embrasured  room,  can 
opied  with  gloom,  curtained  with  shadow,  its  dark 
ness  but  half  illuminated  by  its  lamps  and  cande- 
labras  of  curious  workmanship  and  ancient  form. 
Old  family  portraits  looked  down  from  the  walls, 

—  pictures    of  defiant   soldiers,  crafty   statesmen, 
majestic    prelates,    lofty    dames,    and    inscrutable 
maidens.    The  furniture  of  tarnished  magnificence, 

—  red  velvet  chairs   with    carved   ebony  frames, 
old  cabinets  of  labyrinthine  compartments,  inlaid 
with    ivory,   sculptured   with   armorial    bearings; 

17 


194  LILIAN. 

tables  of  pictured  mosaic,  cracked  and  unsteady ; 
tabourets  of  faded  tapestry,  embroidered  by  dainty 
fingers,  whose  very  bones  were  now  dust,  —  was 
redolent  of  the  past.  All  spoke  of  decayed  splen 
dor,  of  vanished  riches  ;  of  haughty,  humbled 
pride. 

In  the  gloomy  entrance  to  the  excavations  of 
Domitian's  villa,  beneath  the  velvet,  air-spread 
carpet  of  the  Barberini  pines,  grow  graceful  wild 
flowers,  with  curved  white  petals,  crimson  tipped. 
They  smile  softly  from  the  sullen  shadow  around 
them ;  they  cheer  the  eye  with  their  sweet,  lan 
guid  grace.  So  Lilian  bloomed  and  smiled  amid 
the  shade  of  that  old  Italian  mansion,  shedding 
the  perfume  of  her  life  and  love  through  its  dark 
ened  chambers,  filling  the  air  with  beauty  and 
delight. 

LII. 

IT  was  high  festival  in  Rome.  Forth  from  the 
narrow,  dark,  and  winding  streets,  from  their 
dwellings  by  the  turbid  river-side,  from  their  holds 
on  the  narrow  island,  from  their  lurking-places  in 
ruined  palaces,  from  their  abodes  beneath  the 
crumbling  walls  of  ancient  Rome,  from  their  huts 


LILIAN.  196 

on  the  Campagna,  from  their  distant  towns  and 
hamlets  amid  the  hills,  towards  St.  Peter's  poured 
the  multitude,  gorgeous  in  holiday  array.  Groups 
of  proud  maidens  from  the  Trastevere,  —  their 
antique  profiles  showing,  like  the  paintings  on  some 
old  Etruscan  vase,  their  raven  hair  coiled  in  classic 
mode  low  on  their  massive  necks,  and  fastened  by 
a  glittering  silver  poniard,  —  slowly  advanced, 
scarcely  deigning  to  cast  a  glance  upon  the  bronzed 
contadine  in  their  crimson  bodices,  their  snowy 
folded  head-dresses,  and  laced  kerchiefs,  who 
pressed  beside  them  towards  the  wide  piazza  of 
the  great  Cathedral.  Bands  of  shepherds  and 
goatherds,  —  their  tall,  conical  caps  garnished 
with  peacock's  feathers,  shaggy  mantles  of  goat 
skin  hanging  from  their  shoulders,  their  thighs 
encased  in  breeches  of  dark  blue,  their  legs  bound 
with  yellow  buskins,  —  mingled,  laughing  and 
jesting,  with  the  ever-increasing  crowd,  through 
whose  midst  rolled  an  endless  stream  of  carriages 
towards  the  holy  place.  Golden-haired  English 
women,  sparkling  French,  blue-eyed  Russians, 
graceful  Poles,  flashing  Spaniards,  stately  Austri- 
ans,  delicate  Americans,  —  all  were  there ;  all,  ac 
cording  to  time-hallowed  custom,  robed  and  veiled 
in  black. 


196  LILIAN. 

Up  the  long,  sloping  ascent,  across  the  broad, 
flag-paved  steps,  under  the  colossal  portico,  be 
tween  the  giant  gates  of  sculptured  bronze,  into 
the  gorgeous  temple,  thronged  the  multitude:  gray- 
headed  age  and  wondering  childhood,  smiling 
youth  and  sturdy  manhood,  dark-eyed  maidens; 
and  brown-cowled  friars,  portly  matrons  and 
swaggering  soldiers,  high-bred  ladies  and  crippled 
beggars,  epauletted  officers  and  veiled  nuns ;  all 
ranks,  all  ages,  all  degrees,  pouring  together,  in 
wide-spreading  waves  of  human  life,  up  the  far- 
lessening  perspective  of  the  polished  pavement, 
towards  the  endlessly-retreating  sunlight  of  the 
pictured,  pillared  dome. 

A  misty  softness  tempered  the  brightness  of  the 
costly  marbles,  the  splendor  of  the  gilded  capitals. 
A  gentle  haze  veiled  the  distant  glories  of  the  ceil 
ing  ;  a  dim  vapor,  as  of  a  thousand  censers,  hung 
over  the  countless  lamps  and  chiselled  images,  sub 
duing  all  things  to  religious  awe.  The  air  came 
warm  as  from  Judean  plains,  wafting  a  heavy 
fragrance  of  frankincense  and  myrrh.  A  subtle 
languor  crept  through  Lilian's  frame,  tears  rose 
unbidden  to  her  eyes,  the  sentiment  of  unquestion 
ing  reverence  stole  over  her,  enchaining  sense  and 
soul. 


LILIAN.  197 

"And  this  cost  the  Reformation,"  said  Mr. 
Clinton,  who,  with  penetrating  eye,  had  watched 
her  changing,  expressive  face. 

As  if  a  trumpet  had  sounded  in  her  ear,  Lilian 
started.  The  enchantment  weaving  around  her 
vanished  like  a  sorcerer's  spell  before  the  holy 
sign.  Her  eye  sank  through  the  shining  floor 
into  underground,  slowly  dropping  dungeons,  filled 
with  white,  wtin  wretches,  waiting  the  cruel  wheels, 
the  murderous  pulleys,  the  flaming  piles,  and  open 
graves,  which  were  alone  to  set  them  free.  For 
the  breath  of  sacred  spices,  a  smoke  as  of  fresh- 
spilled  blood  rose,  spreading  pall-like  over  the  in- 
crusted  magnificence  around.  It  curled  in  heavy 
wreaths  towards  the  uplifted  cross,  shrouding  it 
from  her  sight ;  and  from  the  covering  mantle 
came  a  voice,  low,  distinct,  and  awful,  —  "  Where 
is  thy  brother  ?  What  hast  thou  done  ?  " 


LIII. 

LILIAN  was  ushered  to  her  seat  in  one  of  the 
reserved  galleries  which,  from  between  twisted 
columns  of  alabaster,  look  down  upon  the  ever 
burning  lamps  around  St.  Peter's  shrine.  She 
took  her  place  beside  a  young  and  graceful  woman, 

17* 


198  LILIAN. 

richly  clad  in  black  velvet,  fastened  at  her  throat 
with  a  clasp  of  diamonds,  a  veil  of  costly  lace 
draping  her  from  head  to  foot.  As  the  stranger 
turned  her  head,  a  flash  of  joyful  surprise  broke 
from  her  eyes.  She  impulsively  raised  Lilian's 
hand  to  her  lips. 

"  Ah,  Madame,  have  I  the  happiness  to  see  you 
again  ?  "  she  exclaimed. 

It  was  the  danseuse,  but  changed  beyond  recog 
nition.  The  clustering  curls  which  had  formerly 
framed  her  face  were  drawn  back  in  massive  wav 
ing  folds,  entirely  altering  the  whole  character  of 
her  countenance,  with  her  grave  and  rich  dress 
changing  her  former  romantic  prettiness  into  an 
air  of  gentle,  quiet  dignity. 

"  I  am  glad  that  you  spoke  to  me,  otherwise  I 
should  not  have  known  you,"  said  Lilian. 

"  I  am  rejoiced  that  you  say  so,  Madame,"  an 
swered  her  companion.  I  should  be  sorry  to  be 
recognized,  for  his  sake."  And  there  was  a  sor 
rowful  intonation  in  her  voice.  "  But  that  is  my 
idea,  Madame,"  she  added  quickly.  "  He  is  too 
kind  ever  to  say  so.  He  is  so  very  kind  !  "  And 
her  eyes  beamed  as  she  spoke. 

"  I  see  that  I  need  not  ask  if  you  are  happy," 
Lilian. 


LILIAN.  199 

"  Ah,  yes,  Madame,  I  am  very  happy !  He 
has  pensioned  my  father,  on  condition  that  he 
never  sees  me  again ;  and  I  am  as  happy  as  the 
day  is  long,  except  when  I  think  of  my  poor 
mother.  And  there  is  one  other  thing.  I  am 
so  very  ignorant,  Madame !  "  And  she  blushed 
deeply.  "  I  did  not  know,  when  I  was  married, 
that  I  was  to  be  une  grande  dame,  else  I  should 
not  have  dared.  But  after  I  was  married,  I  found 
that  my  husband  was  very  rich ;  and,  oh,  how  I 
cried !  I  wanted  to  leave  him  and  go  to  school, 
but  he  said  I  was  foolish,  and  would  not  hear  of 
it.  He  said  that  he  liked  me  very  well  as  I  was, 
but  that  if  I  wanted  to  learn,  I  might  study  at 
home.  So  I  have  an  English  dame  de  compagnie, 
and  a  great  many  masters,  arid  I  study  very  hard. 
But  look!  le  Saint  Pere!"  And  she  fell  on  her 
knees,  devoutly  crossing  herself,  as  up  the  far  dis 
tance  of  the  nave,  between  the  kneeling  ranks  of 
the  vast  multitude,  in  solemn  procession,  came  the 
white-robed  Pope,  escorted  by  the  crimson-mantled 
cardinals. 

The  censers  smoked,  the  music  pealed,  the  sil 
ver  trumpets  rang,  the  stately  ritual  drew  on  to 
its  close.  The  pageant  was  over ;  they  rose  to 
descend.  They  passed  d»wn  the  staircase,  and 
stood  at  the  open  door. 


200  LILIAN. 

"  Adieu,  Madame,"  said  the  Frenchwoman,  as 
their  husbands  advanced  to  rejoin  them.  "  We 
leave  Rome  to-morrow.  I  may  never  see  you 
again.  May  all  happiness  attend  you,  no  evil 
ever  befall  you.  Farewell." 


LIV. 

THROUGH  the  dim  twilight  of  the  great  saloon, 
Lilian  and  Mr.  Clinton  paced  up  and  down.  As 
they  reached  the  farthest  end  of  the  room,  Lilian's 
eyes  ever  turned,  as  if  fascinated,  to  a  picture  in  a 
tarnished  frame,  on  which  the  full,  upward  light 
of  a  lamp  was  cast.  It  was  the  portrait  of  a 
young  woman,  in  the  dress  of  long  past  times. 
Her  hair  of  greenish  gold,  drawn  back  from  her 
forehead,  fell  in  serpentine  masses  upon  her  dead, 
white  shoulders.  The  flesh  tints  of  her  face  had 
sunk  into  the  canvas,  leaving  it  of  a  ghostly  pal 
lor,  from  which  her  emerald  eyes  gleamed  with  a 
sinister  light.  Her  lips,  red  as  a  vampire's,  were 
parted  with  a  wily,  watchful  smile.  Her  right 
hand,  resting  on  her  opal  jewelled  stomacher,  held 
a  bunch  of  purple  flowers,  whose  dark  tints  stood 
out  in  sharp  relief  against  the  faded  sea-green 
brocade  of  her  dress,  r 


LILIAN.  201 

By  an  accidental  effect,  the  light  from  below 
fell,  on  the  eyes  of  the  picture  in  such  manner 
that  they  seemed,  as  Lilian  passed,  to  cast  a  fur 
tive  glance,  quickly  withdrawn,  upon  a  portrait  in 
the  shade  of  the  side  wall.  It  was  the  likeness  of 
a  young  girl  of  great  beauty,  clad  in  white  satin. 
The  heavy,  shining  folds  were  looped  up  from  her 
soft  arms,  and  gently  rounded  bosom,  by  pendant 
pearls,  mingled  with  rubies,  hanging  like  blood- 
drops.  Her  brown  eyes  were  cast  smilingly  down 
upon  a  tiny  spaniel,  which  was  crouching  upon  a 
table  by  her  side,  apparently  restrained  from 
springing  forward,  by  the  pressure  of  her  delicate 
hand.  On  her  finger  glittered  the  betrothal  ring. 
On  the  table  beside  her  was  a  princely  coronet. 

As  she  stood  half  turned,  she  appeared  to  be 
withholding  the  spaniel  from  attacking,  with  futile 
rage,  the  lady  with  the  emerald  gleaming  eyes. 

Lilian  paused  before  the  last  portrait. 

u  It  is  strange  that  I  should  find  my  eye  so 
constantly  drawn  to  this  picture,  for  I  always  look 
unwillingly.  It  invariably  gives  me  a  disagreeable 
sensation.  I  wish  I  knew  her  story.  It  would 
set  my  imagination  at  rest." 

"  It  is  a  face  belonging  to  a  character,  the  pro 
duct  of  a  most  vicious  age,!?  answered  Mr.  Clin- 


202  LILIAN. 

ton.  "  We  never  see  such  faces  now.  They  have 
passed  away  with  the  peculiar  circumstances  which 
developed  the  traits  that  stamp  them.  An  edu 
cated  criminal  is  an  anomaly  in  our  century. 
Crime  and  degradation  are  now  and  will  be  hence 
forth  as  closely  associated  as  crime  and  power  were 
then.  Not  but  that  noble  characters  were  to  be 
found  in  the  highest,  and  consequently  the  most 
depraved,  circles  of  those  times.  Here,  for  ex 
ample,  is  a  face  which,  young  as  it  is,  bespeaks 
rare  depth  of  feeling  and  constancy  of  purpose." 
He  led  her  before  the  portrait  of  a  young  girl  of 
perhaps  fifteen. 

According  to  a  not  unfrequent  caprice  of  taste 
in  former  days,  she  was  portrayed  with  the  attri 
butes  of  Saint  Catherine ;  by  her  side  a  dark, 
shining  wheel,  in  her  band  the  martyr's  branch 
of  palm.  Heavy,  low-toned  draperies  veiled  the 
girlish  figure,  —  slender  and  stately  as  a  cypress- 
tree,  —  and  mingled  with  the  cloudy  shadows  of 
the  background.  All  the  light  of  the  picture  was 
concentrated  on  the  face.  The  deep,  inscrutable 
eyes,  the  steady  brow,  the  even  nostril,  the  closely- 
guarded  mouth,  the  strongly  accented  chin  and 
cheek,  —  all  were  full  of  wakeful  repose,  of  cau 
tious  penetration,  of  immutable  will. 


LILIAN.  203 

"  Here  also  is  forcibly  marked  the  effect  of  an 
education  foreign  to  our  feelings,  impossible  to  the 
social  constitution  of  our  day.  As  you  look,  you 
see  that  this  girl  is  treading  perforce  a  difficult, 
dangerous  path.  Resolution,  prudence,  foresight, 
are  already  fully  developed  in  this  young  face. 

"  Yes,  she  must  have  been  a  noble  creature," 
replied  Lilian.  "  Her  face  is  like  the  antidote  to 
that  baneful  apparition  opposite.  She  interests  me 
quite  as  much,  though  in  a  different  way.  But 
is  there  no  possibility  of  finding  out  their  histories  ? 
Surely  there  must  be  old  family  records." 

"  II  Signer  Dottore  Albertazzi." 

Mr.  Clinton's  lips  were  closely  pressed  together, 
as  the  ponderous  curtain  of  the  door  was  drawn 
aside,  to  give  entrance  to  a  small,  dark,  strongly- 
built  man,  with  a  thoughtful,  compact  head,  flash 
ing,  restless  eyes,  strongly  indicated  nose  and  chin, 
and  firm  but  kindly  mouth. 

The  visitor  hastened  to  meet  his  advancing 
host,  and  cordially  grasped  his  outstretched  hand. 

"  I  have  just  returned  to  Rome,  and  I  hasten 
at  once  to  see  you,  my  dear  Mr.  Clinton.  I  re 
joice  to  meet  you  again  under  such  happy  aus 
pices."  And  he  turned,  with  a  courteous  saluta 
tion,  towards  Lilian. 


204  LILIAN. 

"  Lilian,  Dr.  Albertazzi,  a  valued  friend  of 
mine,"  said  Mr.  Clinton,  with  a  slight  air  of  con 
straint. 

"  And  the  blow,  —  it  had  no  awkward  after- 
consequences  ?"  inquired  the  physician,  looking 
scrutinizingly  at  the  massive  locks  which  hung 
around  Mr.  Clinton's  temples. 

"  None,"  he  answered,  with  evident  effort. 

The  visitor  pursued  the  subject  no  further. 
What  blow  ?  Who  was  this  stranger,  a  valued 
friend  of  whom  Mr.  Clinton  had  never  spoken  to 
her  ?  Why  did  he  change  countenance  when  this 
guest  was  announced,  and  why  did  he  look  so  pale 
and  grave  ?  Lilian  sat  perplexed  and  disquieted, 
her  eyes  fixed  upon  her  husband,  whose  face  was 
gradually  reassuming  its  wonted  calmness. 

"  You  find  us  quite  on  the  outskirts  of  the  city ; 
but  I  was  assured  that  the  air  is  good,  and  we  like 
the  retirement." 

"  And  the  garden  is  delightful,"  added  Lilian, 
forcing  herself  to  join  in  the  conversation. 

"  Yes,  the  garden  I  remember  well.  It  is  one 
of  the  pleasantest  in  Rome,"  replied  the  Italian, 
bending  his'head  towards  her,  as  if  to  catch  every 
accent  of  her  sweet,  low  voice.  "It  is  sunny, 
and  full  of  birds  and  flowers,  just  the  place  for  a 
lady  young  and  like  yourself." 


LILIAN.  205 

The  tone  was  so  frank  and  cordial  that  Lilian 
forgave  the  implied  compliment,  and  smiled  as  she 
answered,  — 

"  But  I  like  other  things,  besides  sunshine  and 
birds  and  flowers.  This  old  shadowy  room  that 
refuses  obstinately  to  allow  itself  to  be  made  cheer 
ful,  these  antiquated  chairs  and  sofas,  these  curious 
cabinets,  and,  most  of  all,  these  family  portraits,  de 
light  me.  I  think  that  we  of  America  must  value 
such  things  more  than  any  other  people,  for  you 
know  that  we  have  nothing  old.  When  I  was  a 
child,  I  used  often  to  walk  half  a  mile  to  see  an 
old  broken  shed ;  and  I  looked  at  it  with  venera 
tion,  because  I  had  been  told  it  was  a  ruin.  We 
have  no  ruins." 

"  And  we  have  little  else,"  replied  the  Italian, 
sadly.  "  St.  Peter's  great  dome  itself,  like  the 
religion  preached  beneath  it,  is  falling  to  decay, 
each  held  in  its  place  only  by  an  iron  chain." 

He  stopped,  and  a  deep  contraction  furrowed 
his  olive  forehead. 

44  Mrs.  Clinton  was  wishing,  just  as  you  came  in, 
that  she  could  learn  something  of  the  intimate  his 
tory  of  the  originals  of  these  portraits,"  said  Mr. 
Clinton,  coming  to  Lilian's  aid  to  turn  the  conver 
sation.  "  Doubtless  there  are  annals  of  the  family." 

18 


206  LILIAN. 

"  Beyond  a  doubt  such  annals  exist  in  the  li 
brary  of  the  palace  in  the  Corso,  but  I  fear  they 
are  as  inaccessible  as  the  archives  of  the  Vatican, 
and  for  much  the  same  reason." 

"  .What,  was  this  family  so  very  wicked?  "  said 
Lilian,  with  a  glance  at  the  dimly-seen  faces  in 
the  background. 

"  It  was  wicked,  like  all  the  other  great  families. 
I  do  not  mean  to  imply  that  the  Ormanoni  had  in 
stituted  any  monopoly  of  crime,"  replied  the  Ital 
ian  ;  "  but  if  you  are  curious  to  hear  old  histories 
of  the  race,  you  should  apply  to  la  vecchia  down 
stairs,  Anina,  the  porter's  mother.  She  knows 
them  all,  and  would  be  infinitely  gratified  at  being 
called  upon  to  instruct  you.  It  still  happens  oc 
casionally,  that  you  find  here  servants,  whose  an 
cestors  for  many  generations  have  been  attached 
to  the  same  family.  They  preserve  unbroken  the 
traditions  of  the  house  they  serve,  and  their  ac 
counts  are  often  more  trustworthy  than  those  of 
the  paid  and  bribed  annalist.  Yes,  I  counsel  you 
to  send  for  old  Anina." 

"  I  shall  certainly  send  for  her  to-morrow  morn 
ing,  according  to  your  recommendation,"  said 
Lilian.  "  I  shall  have  her  brought  into  this 
room,  and  shall  look  at  the  pictures  all  the  while 


LILIAN.  207 

she  is  telling  me  their  stories.  I  am  sure  there 
is  some  tragedy  connected  with  the  life  of  that 
woman  in  sea-green  brocade." 

The  Italian  rose  and  approached  the  picture. 

"  Ah,  yes,  she  poisoned  her  cousin  !  "  Lilian 
looked  aghast.  "  I  have  forgotten  the  story,"  he 
continued.  "  I  only  remember  the  fact.  But  old 
Anina  will  know." 

"  I  see  that  the  villa  beside  us  is  occupied 
within  the  last  day  or  two,"  said  Mr.  Clinton, 
ever  anxious  to  have  only  happy  subjects  brought 
before  Lilian's  excitable  imagination.  "  You  must 
know  that  we  lead  such  secluded  lives,  that  we 
are  aware  of  little  that  passes  around  us,  and  are 
ignorant  even  of  the  names  of  our  neighbors  ;  so 
I  apply  to  you  to  inform  us  who  the  remarkably 
pretty  young  girl  is  who  has  taken  up  her  abode 
so  near  us." 

"  She  is  the  young  Marchesa  Contini,"  an 
swered  the  Italian.  "  Hers  is  a  love-story.  All 
Rome  is  talking  about  it.  She  was  married  three 
days  ago,  on  the  day  she  was  to  have  taken  the 
veil.  The  Marchese,  her  husband,  had  been  be 
trothed  as  soon  as  he  was  born,  to  his  cousin. 
But,  as  usually  happens  in  such  cases,  when  he 
grew  up  he  fell  in  love  with  somebody  else.  The 


208  LILIAN. 

cousin  on  her  side,  —  one  of  the  most  amiable 
young  women  in  the  world,  —  was  equally  averse 
to  the  union,  for  she  had  a  vocation  and  was  bent 
upon  taking  the  veil.  But  the  family  took  no 
heed  of  their  unwillingness,  and  it  was  formally 
announced  that  they  were  to  be  married.  The 
Contessina  Carlotta  could  have  been  managed, 
for  she  was  of  a  yielding  disposition,  but  the 
young  Marchese  was  rebelliously  firm.  He  de 
clared  in  reply  to  the  formal  announcement,  that 
he  would  marry  no  one  but  the  girl  he  loved,  —  the 
daughter  of  an  old  Cavaliere  without  a  bajoccliio. 
So  his  family  set  to  work,  and  by  means  of  the 
ghostly  influence  of  which  his  uncle  the  Car 
dinal  disposed,  the  old  Cavaliere  was  persuaded 
that  it  was  his  duty  to  put  his  daughter  into  a 
convent,  of  which  it  was  promised  him  she  should 
eventually  become  abbess.  She  was  entered  as  a 
novice,  before  the  young  Marchese  knew  anything 
about  it.  He  was  half  distracted,  and  they  sent 
him  off  to  travel,  —  the  invariable  prescription,  you 
know. 

"  The  year  was  almost  ended,  when  providen 
tially  the  old  Marchese  died.  The  young  man  hur 
ried  back  to  Rome,  immediately  on  receiving  the 
intelligence.  He  arrived  only  a  few  days  before 


LILIAN.  209 

she  was  to  take  the  final  vows.  As  soon  as  he 
reached  his  home,  he  convoked  his  whole  family, 
uncles  and  aunts  and  cousins,  and  before  them 
all  took  a  solemn  vow  never  to  marry  any  one, 
—  in  which  case  one  of  the  most  ancient  houses 
in  Rome,  with  ah1  its  honors  and  dignities,  would 
become  extinct,  —  unless  he  married  the  novice. 
He  added  a  second  vow,  never  to  ask  absolution 
from  the  first,  and  then  walked  out  of  the  room. 
You  can  imagine  the  dismay  of  the  assembled 
conclave.  All  had  had  something  to  do  with 
the  affair,  and  all  abused  each  other.  At  length 
they  agreed  on  one  thing :  that  the  novice  must 
be  taken  out  of  the  convent  and  given  to  the 
Marchese,  and  so  she  was.  As  I  said,  they  were 
married  three  days  ago,  on  the  day  that  had  been 
appointed  for  her  taking  the  black  veil.  He 
brought  her  to  the  Villa  Contini,  and  there  they 
are  passing  their  first  happy  days." 

The  conversation  rolled  on  in  an  even  channel. 
No  allusion  was  made,  no  reference  occurred  by 
which  Lilian  could  guess  at  the  association  which 
had  so  overshadowed  her  husband's  brow  at  the 
first  entrance  of  their  visitor. 

As  the  curtain  fell  and  the  door  closed  behind 

18* 


210  LILIAN. 

the  parting  guest,  Mr.  Clinton  threw  himself  on 
a  sofa  and  shaded  his  face  with  his  hand.  Lilian 
placed  herself  by  his  side,  saddened  and  ponder 
ing.  Could  it  be  anything  that  had  to  do  with 
his  great  sorrow  ?  She  slid  her  hand  into  that 
beside  her.  He  looked  up  and  met  her  gaze. 

"  He  was  on  board  The  Ercolaneo  when  she 
ran  us  down,"  he  said. 

Lilian's  heart  sickened  with  sympathetic  pain. 
On  one  subject  they  never  spoke  together.  The 
name  of  Mira  was  never  mentioned  by  either. 
It  was  no  sullen  secret,  no  gloomy  mystery  that 
closed  his  lips,  no  retrospective  jealousy  that  sealed 
her  speech.  It  was  simply  that  the  sudden  and 
dreadful  death  of  his  young  wife  had  been  to  him 
the  cause  of  such  exquisite  and  enduring  suffer 
ing,  that  both  shrank  from  sending  his  thought 
back  from  the  sweet  gladness  and  soft  pleasure 
of  his  daily  life,  down  to  those  cold  depths  where 
in  eternal  darkness  and  silence,  amid  creeping 
sea-monsters  and  shapeless  forms  of  dread,  un- 
gathered,  uncoffined,  still  locked  in  the  convul 
sion  of  her  death-struggle,  Mira's  bones  lay  be 
neath  the  sea. 

Lilian  rose  and  knelt  beside  him  on  the  sofa. 
She  silently  entwined  her  arms  about  his  neck, 


LILIAN.  211 

and  pressed  close,  clinging  kisses  on  his  forehead. 
He  wound  his  arms  around  her  and  drew  her  to 
his  knee.  He  buried  his  face  in  her  bosom,  as  if 
seeking  refuge  from  the  anguish  of  past  grief. 

Gradually  the  soft  presence  of  the  woman  he 
loved  soothed  his  thought.  He  raised  his  head, 
rose,  and  drew  her  to  the  window. 

"  Let  us  go  out  on  the  balcony,"  he  said. 

The  room  seemed  full-  of  pain.  Lilian  was  glad 
to  escape  from  it  to  the  moonlight  without.  It 
was  a  magical  scene.  The  moon  shone  high  in 
the  heavens,  effulgent  amid  the  lesser  stars, 
pouring  floods  of  golden  light  over  the  gardens 
below.  The  vast  expanse  of  the  Campagna  be 
yond  lay  veiled  in  silver  mist,  and  in  the  dis 
tance,  dream-like  visions  of  far-off  hills  and  moun 
tains  lifted  themselves  softly  against  the  deep  pur 
ple  of  the  sky.  The  air,  warm  with  the  breath 
of  spring,  brought  the  rich  odors  of  flowers  and 
scented  shrubs  to  their  sense  ;  and,  mingling  with 
the  faint  tinkling  of  the  waters  of  the  fountains, 
rose  the  soft  notes  of  a  solitary  nightingale,  sing 
ing  in  the  shade.  They  breathed  in  Beauty,  they 
inhaled  Peace.  The  shadow  of  their  trouble  passed 
away,  and  the  still  thankfulness  which  made  the 
daily  sunlight  of  their  hearts,  returned. 


212  LILIAN. 

As  they  stood  gazing  with  eyes'  that  wearied 
not,  on  the  fair-spread  scene  beneath  them,  forth 
from  the  open  windows  of  the  neighboring  villa 
floated  a  manly  voice  singing  in  careless  cadence 
of  improvisation : 

Soft  is  the  perfumed  air, 

Sweet  is  the  bird's  low  song, 
Tenderly  lie  the  clouds 

The  midnight  sky  along. 
Gently  the  moon's  mild  heams 

Eest  on  yon  far-off  height, 
Whilst  the  Campagna  ,1  *ea- 

Sleeps,  veiled  in  silver  light. 

Soft  are  thy  kisses,  love, 

Sweet  is  thy  murmured  tone ; 
Tenderly  lies  thy  head 

My  throbbing  heart  upon. 
Gently,  ah  dear  one,  rest, 

Rocked  by  my  happy  sighs, 
Until  to-morrow's  light 

Beams  from  the  sunny  skies. 

The  melody  died  away,  and  again  they  heard 
only  the  distant  tinkling  of  the  fountains  and  the 
low  chant  of  the  hidden  bird. 

"  The  air  seems  softer,  the  odors  sweeter  for 
the  song,"  said  Lilian.  "  How  pleasant  it  is  to 
think  of  the  happiness  so  near  us  !  What  a  change 
for  that  girl,  — a  week  ago  in  a  little  bare  cell  in 
a  walled  convent,  thinking  herself  divided  forever 


LILIAN.  213 

from  her  lover,  and  now  in  the  freedom  of  this 
lovely  country-seat,  with  him." 

"  You  think  of  her,  as  is  natural,"  replied  Mr. 
Clinton.  "  I  think  of  him.  Imagine  what  he  must 
have  felt  when  the  woman  he  loved  was  separated 
from  him,  her  life  wearing  away  in  her  desolate 
convent,  her  heart  wasting  in  the  vain  attempt  to 
stifle  out  her  love,  or  breaking  in  unresisting  de 
spair.  I  cannot  bear  to  think  of  it,"  he  said  with 
sudden  passion. 

Lilian  looked  up  in  his  face  with  the  smile  of 
perfect  security,  but  as  she  saw  its  emotion,  she 
remembered  that  such  misery  or  worse,  had  al 
ready  been  his.  Her  eyes  filled  with  tears  and 
sank,  —  sank  low  and  lower  till  they  rested  on  the 
white  sarcophagus.  The  same  vague  terror  that 
she  had  felt  at  its  first  sight,  returned  upon  her. 

"  Harvey,  I  am  afraid  of  that  sarcophagus," 
broke  almost  involuntarily  from  her  lips. 

Half  reproachfully  he  answered  her  tone  of  dis 
tress. 

"  Why  did  you  not  tell  me  ?  If  I  could  have 
fancied  that  it  would  have  suggested  any  painful 
thought,  I  would  have  had  it  removed  before  I 
brought  you  here.  It  shall  be  taken  away  to 
morrow.  But  why  did  you  not  tell  me  ?  " 


214  LILIAN. 

"  I  was  ashamed,  it  seemed  so  foolish.  But 
why  is  it  that  the  sight  of  it  frightens  me  ?  " 

"  Probably  because  you  know  that  it  is  a  mar 
ble  coffin.  Its  beauty  does  riot  alter,  it  only  adorns 
its  use.  You  may  not  have  said  this  to  yourself, 
but  you  must  have  unconsciously  felt  it  and  been 
disquieted  by  the  obtruding  of  the  sad  associations 
of  mortality  into  what  I  had  hoped  would  be  to 
you  a  garden  of  pleasure.  But  it  shall  be  taken 
away  to-morrow." 

"  Oh  no,  pray  do  not  have  it  removed,"  pleaded 
Lilian.  "  I  should  be  ashamed  of  my  unreason 
ableness  every  time  that  I  saw  its  empty  place. 
And  what  have  I  to  dread !  " 

As  she  ceased,  through  the  night  and  stillness 
mournfully  sinking,  came  the  sound  of  a  convent 
bell. 

LV. 

"  ECCOMI  qua,  Signora  mia,  per  servirla,"  said 
old  Anina,  as  on  the  next  morning  she  hobbled 
into  the  great,  old-fashioned  room,  whose  shad 
ows,  chased  by  the  sunlight  which  streamed  in 
through  the  open  windows,  had  retreated  to  the 
heavily-carved  cornices  and  ceiling,  whence  they 
gloomed  sullenly  down  on  the  speakers  below,  — 


LILIAN.  215 

old  Anina,  her  gray  hair  tightly  braided  on  her 
wrinkled  brown  forehead,  and  drawn  back  under 
a  black  silk  coif;  long  golden  pendants  of  rude 
workmanship  dangling  from  her  ears  and  resting 
on  her  shoulders,  a  string  of  golden  beads  encir 
cling  her  withered  neck,  a  scarlet  kerchief  folded 
over  her  bosom,  a  short  brown  stuff-petticoat  show 
ing  her  dark  blue  stockings  and  heavy  shoes.  Lil 
ian,  in  her  flowing  robe  of  softest,  whitest  wool, 
fastened  at  her  throat  and  waist  by  heavily  tas- 
selled  crimson  cords,  her  dark  hair  confined  by  a 
crimson  net ;  the  wrinkled,  quick-eyed,  alert  age 
of  the  servant  opposed  in  strong,  yet  harmonious 
contrast  to  the  soft  grace,  the  sweet  youth  of  the 
lady. 

44  Sit  here,  Anina,"  said  Lilian,  pointing  to  a 
chair  in  the  sunlight.  "  I  have  sent  for  you  be 
cause  I  want  to  hear  the  stories  of  some  of  these 
portraits,  and  Dr.  Albertazzi  tells  me  that  you 
know  them  all." 

"  Ah,  what  a  good  man  is  that  Signore  dot- 
•tore  !  What  a  sweet  gentleman  !  Yes,  my  beau 
tiful  lady,  I  know  them  all.  I  will  not  shame  the 
Signor  dottore,  that  good  gentleman ;  I  will  tell 
them  to  you,  all.  Just  as  many  as  there  are,  so 
many  will  I  tell  you." 


216  LILIAN. 

"  First  I  want  to  know  the  names  and  stories 
of  these  three  portraits,"  said  Lilian,  somewhat 
alarmed  at  the  prospect  of  interminable  narration 
opening  before  her.  "  What  was  the  name  of 
this  lady  in  sea-green  brocade,  and  of  this  young 
girl  in  white  satin,  and  of  this  one,  younger  still, 
with  a  branch  of  palm  in  her  hand  ?  " 

"  The  lady  in  the  beautiful  sea-green  dress  was 
Donna  Apollonia,  but  she  was  not  an  Ormanoni 
at  all.  She  has  no  right  to  be  hanging  up  there, 
but  so  the  old  Signore  would  have  it  in  his  day, 
and  of  course  it  has  never  been  touched  since." 

"  And  the  young  girls  ?  " 

"  She  in  the  white  satin  with  the  great  rubies 
and  pearls,  was  Donna  Flavia,  and  she  with  the 
palm  branch,  Donna  Vittoria.  They  were  sis 
ters.  Donna  Apollonia  was  their  cousin." 

"  Was  it  one  of  these  that  she  poisoned  ?  " 

"  Ah,  la  Signora  already  knows  something ! 
Yes,  it  was  one  of -these.  But  it  is  a  long  story. 
It  has  a  beginning,  and  I  must  begin  at  the  be 
ginning." 

"  Wait  till  I  have  placed  myself  where  I  can 
see  all  three  of  the  faces  at  once,"  said  Lilian,  and 
she  rolled  an  old  couch  opposite  the  angle  where 
the  three  portraits  were  hanging.  "  Now  Anina, 
begin." 


LILIAN.  217 

"  You  must  know,  my  beautiful  lady,  that  the 
Duke  Lorenzo,  the  father  of  Donna  Flavia  and 
Donna  Vittoria,  had  been  betrothed  to  the  eldest 
daughter  of  the  Marquis  Menzone.  It  was  an 
arrangement  made  as  was  usual  in  those  days, 
before  the  children  were  born.  The  first  child 
of  the  Marquis  was  a  boy,  so  the  little  Duke  Lo 
renzo  had  to  wait  still  longer  for  his  promessa 
sposa,  and  when  she  came  at  last,  there  were 
two  of  them,  and  in  the  confusion  and  the  fright, 
—  for  the  Marchesa,  poor  lady,  was  very  ill,  so 
that  she  died,  —  no  one  could  remember  which 
child  was  born  first,  and  was  consequently  to 
marry  Don  Lorenzo.  They  did  not  know  what 
to  do.  The  only  thing  certain  was  that  he  was 
to  marry  one  of  them.  At  length  the  fathers 
agreed  that  when  the  time  came,  Don  Lorenzo 
should  choose  the  one  he  liked  best,  which  was 
an  unheard-of  thing,  and  proves  how  much  in 
dulged  Don  Lorenzo  must  have  been.  So  they 
grew  up  all  three  together,  but  every  one  knew 
from  the  time  they  were  little  things  which  of 
the  sisters  would  be  the  Duchess.  Donna  Lu- 
crezia  was  tall  and  fair,  she  had  golden  hair  and 
a  skin  like  milk.  But  she  was  cruel  even  as  a 
little  child.  She  used  to  set  traps  for  the  little 

19 


218  LILIAN. 

birds  in  the  garden,  and  used  to  take  the  gold 
fishes  out  of  the  basins  and  laugh  as  they  sprang 
about  on  the  grass.  Donna  Emilia  used  to  cry 
and  put  them  back  as  soon  as  Donna  Lucrezia's 
back  was  turned,  and  she  used  to. bury  tenderly 
.the  little  dead  birds,  but  she  never  dared  oppose 
her  sister  in  anything  to  her  face,  because  Donna 
Lucrezia  was  so  overbearing.  Donna  Emilia  was 
not  so  beautiful  as  her  sister,  she  was  as  dark  as 
Donna  Lucrezia  was  fair,  but  all  the  beauty  that 
she  lacked  in  her  outward  form  she  possessed  in 
her  soul.  She  was  as  gentle  and  mild  as  an  an 
gel.  All  the  servitu  adored  her,  but  they  could 
not  abide  Donna  Lucrezia.  Don  Lorenzo  loved 
her  with  all  his  heart,  and  when  she  was  unhappy 
because  of  her  sister's  unkindness,  he  would  com 
fort  her  and  .tell  her  not  to  cry,  for  that  she  should 
be  his  little  wife.  And  he  never  varied  in  his 
choice,  although  when  the  sisters  grew  up  and 
began  to  look  womanly,  Donna  Lucrezia  seemed 
to  lay  aside  her  evil  ways,  and  smiled  softly  and 
moved  gently  and  appeared  quite  changed.  But 
any  one  could  see  to  look  in  her  eyes  that  the 
wickedness  was  still  in  her  heart.  She  did  all 
that  she  could  to  lure  Don  Lorenzo  away  from 
her  sister,  but  it  was  all  in  vain.  They  were 


LILIAN.  219 

married  with  great  pomp  on  the  day  that  Donna 
Emilia  was  sixteen.  People  at  the  wedding  saw 
how  ghastly  pale  Donna  Lucrezia  looked,  and 
how  full  of  wicked  light  her  eyes  were  at  the 
wedding-feast,  but  no  one  could  see  what  lay 
coiled  at  her  heart. 

"  A  little  while  afterward  Donna  Lucrezia  was 
married  to  a  rich  Florentine  noble,  and  went  to 
Florence  to  live.  Her  husband  was  rich,  but  not 
so  rich  as  Don  Lorenzo,  and  instead  of  being 
handsome  and  young,  he  was  ugly  and  old,  and 
had  already  had  two  wives.  In  a  year  after  she 
was  married,  she  had  a  daughter,  Donna  Apol- 
lonia.  She  never  had  any  other  children.  The 
year  afterward  her  husband  died  suddenly,  leav 
ing  her  all  the  estates  he  could  dispose  of.  The 
rest  went  of  course  to  Dtfnna  Apollonia. 

"  Years  went  by,  four  years,  and  Don  Lorenzo 
and  Donna  Emilia  had  no  children.  It  was 
their  only  grief.  They  tried  all  sorts  of  pen 
ances  and  pilgrimages  to  obtain  the  gift  of  a 
child,  and  at  length  to  the  great  delight  of  the 
whole  house,  Donna  Flavia  was  born.  To  be 
sure  it  was  only  a  daughter,  but  they  had  waited 
so  long  that  it  was  as  much  to  them  as  a  son 
would  have  been  to  any  one  else.  Two  years 


220  LILIAN. 

afterwards  Donna  Vittoria  was  born.  This  time 
they  were  sadly  disappointed,  and  when  the  mid 
wife  showed  the  child  to  Donna  Emilia,  she  burst 
into  tears.  But  the  midwife,  who  was  learned 
in  the  stars,  told  her  not  to  grieve,  for  that  the 
child  was  born  in  the  conjunction  of  Mercury 
and  Jupiter,  and  would  excel  all  the  females  of 
the  house  in  wisdom  and  strength.  So  Donna 
Emilia  dried  her  tears  and  welcomed  the  child 
gladly. 

"  The  prediction  of  the  midwife  was  verified  from 
the  beginning.  She  was  the  most  patient  of  little 
children  even  before  she  could  speak,  and  she  was 
as  just  as  the  Good  Lord  himself,  while  she  was 
still  creeping  on  the  floor.  Her  nurse,  as  was  to 
be  expected,  loved  her  better  than  she  did  Donna 
Flavia,  and  one  day  as  she  was  giving  them  straw 
berries  in  the  garden,  she  gave  Donna  Vittoria  two 
in  succession,  instead  of  giving  the  second  to  Donna 
Flavia  as  she  ought  to  have  done.  Donna  Flavia 
began  to  cry,  for  she  was  always  soft-hearted,  but 
Donna  Vittoria  would  not  eat  the  strawberry,  she 
squeezed  it  into  Donna  Flavia's  hand,  and  the 
juice  ran  down  and  spoiled  her  satin  dress,  and 
then  she  slipped  out  of  her  nurse's  arms  and  tod 
dled  up  to  Donna  Flavia  and  hugged  her  and 


LILIAN.  221 

kissed  her,  and  she  would  not  eat  any  more 
strawberries  she  was  so  angered  with  her  nurse. 
—  The  nurse  was  an  ancestress  of  mine.  —  It  was 
a  little  thing,  but  all  her  life  when  a  child  was 
made  up  of  things  like  that. 

"  Any  one  would  have  thought  to  have  seen  them 
together  that  Donna  Vittoria  was  the  oldest.  She 
soon  grew  taller  than  her  sister,  though  she  was 
always  slender,  and  she  watched  over  her  and 
took  care  of  her,  from  the  time  they  were  little 
creatures.  She  was  gentle  and  kind  to  all,  ever 
respectful  and  obedient  to  her  parents  and  instruc 
tors,  but  she  never  seemed  really  to  love  any  one 
save  Donna  Flavia,  and  she  would  have  given  her 
life  to  please  her.  And  Donna  Flavia  loved  her 
just  as  well,  only  in  a  different  manner,  accord 
ing  to  the  difference  between  them.  She  obeyed 
every  word  Donna  Vittoria  said,  and  leaned  upon 
her  in  all  things.  It  was  beautiful  to  see  them 
together. 

"  When  Donna  Flavia  was  seventeen,  she  was 
universally  accounted  the  loveliest  young  lady  in 
Rome.  You  see  her  in  her  portrait  as  she  was. 
She  was  not  betrothed,  and  she  had  many  suitors, 
but  the  one  her  parents  chose  was  the  Principe  di 
Terracina,  the  greatest  match  in  Rome.  He  was 

19* 


222  LILIAN. 

very  young  and  desperately  in  love.  And  all 
the  family  were  very  glad  because  of  this  great 
match. 

"  Just  a  little  while  after  they  were  promised 
to  each  other,  the  sister  of  Donna  Emilia,  Donna 
Lucrezia,  died,  and  left  her  only  child,  Donna 
Apollonia,  to  Don  Lorenzo  and  Donna  Emilia's 
care.  So  they  sent  for  her  to  Florence  and  had 
her  brought  to  Home.  Donna  Emilia,  who  had 
not  seen  her  sister  since  her  marriage,  and  who 
had  grieved  very  much  at  her  death,  for  she  was 
of  a  forgiving  disposition  and  had  forgotten  all 
about  her  unkindness  years  before,  was  quite 
overcome  at  the  sight  of  her  niece,  who  was  the 
very  image  of  her  mother,  and  took  her  at  once 
to  her  heart.  Donna  Apollonia  had  the  most 
gracious,  winning  ways  in  the  world  :  her  voice 
was  as  sweet  as  a  purple  fig,  her  motion  as  glid 
ing  as  a  lizard's,  and  she  always  dressed  in  green. 
She  seemed  to  bewitch  the  whole  house  and  every 
thing  in  it,  except  Donna  Vittoria  and  Donna 
Flavia's  pet  spaniel.  He  had  always  before  been 
a  good-natured  and  polite  dog,  but  whenever  he 
saw  Donna  Apollonia,  he  barked  himself  hoarse, 
would  run  at  her  as  if  to  bite  her,  then  put  his 
tail  between  his  legs,  yelp,  and  run  back  to 


LILIAN.  223 

Donna  Flavia,  who  was  much  scandalized  at  his 
want  of  good-breeding. 

"  Donna  Apollonia,  from  the  time  of  her  en 
trance  into  the  house,  attached  herself  particularly 
to  Donna  Flavia.  She  sang  to  her  the  new  ro 
mances  that  she  had  brought  with  her  from  Flor 
ence  ;  she  taught  her  to  play  upon  a  newly-in 
vented  lute  ;  she  arranged  flowers  in  her  hair  in 
the  most  becoming  manner ;  and  she  used  to  talk 
to  the  Principe,  when  he  made  his  visits;  —  for 
which  last  thing  Donna  Flavia  was  especially 
grateful,  for  she  was  very  shy,  and  blushed  up  to 
the  eyes  whenever  he  spoke  to  her. 

She  never  tried  to  ingratiate  herself  with  Donna 
Vittoria,  after  the  first  few  days,  but,  on  the  con 
trary,  seemed  to  avoid  all  occasions  of  being  left 
alone  with  her.  Donna  Vittoria  once  tried  to  put 
Donna  Flavia  on  her  guard  against  her  cousin, 
but  for  the  first  time  she  found  her  words  unheed 
ed.  Donna  Flavia  kissed  her,  and  told  her  that 
if  she  only  knew  how  Donna  Apollonia  admired 
and  praised  her  behind  her  back,  she  would  never 
think  unkindly  of  her  again.  Donna  Vittoria 
shook  her  head,  and  went  away,  for  she  saw  that 
she  was  not  strong  enough  to  struggle  with  the 
artfulness  of  a  woman  so  much  older  than  she  was. 


224  LILIAN. 

"  The  time  for  Donna  Flavia's  marriage  ap 
proached  ;  but  first,  of  course,  her  picture  was  to 
be  painted ;  and  the  Duke  and  Duchess  said  that 
they  would  have  Donna  Vittoria's  and  Donna 
Apollonia's  painted  at  the  same  time.  A  great 
painter  was  sent  for,  and  a  room  fitted  up  as  a 
studio.  They  were  allowed  to  choose  their  own 
dresses,  and  Donna  Flavia  and  Donna  Apollonia 
chose  those  you  see ;  but  when  they  asked  Donna 
Vittoria  what  she  would  have,  she  said  the  artist 
could  choose  for  her  better  than  she  could  for 
herself,  so  he  painted  her  as  Santa  Caterina. 

"  When  the  artist  was  about  to  begin,  Donna 
Flavia  wanted  to  have  her  little  dog  painted  too 
on  the  table  beside  her.  He  said  it  would  do 
very  well,  so  the  little  dog  was  put  there,  and  sat 
very  quiet  and  contented  till  the  door  opened,  and 
Donna  Apollonia  glided  in.  As  soon  as  he  saw 
her,  the  little  dog  crouched  down  as  if  to  spring 
at  her,  and  snarled  and  showed  his  teeth.  Donna 
Flavia  put  her  hand  on  him  to  hold  him  still,  and 
scolded  him,  smiling  the  while  to  see  him  in  such 
a  rage.  The  artist  said  that  she  must  be  painted 
just  so,  and  he  painted  her  just  as  she  stood  at 
that  moment,  only  the  Principe  insisted  upon  hav 
ing  the  coronet  she  was  to  wear  as  his  wife,  put 
in.  —  Poor  Donna  Flavia  ! 


LILIAN.  225 

"  The  great  artist  seemed  very  happy  while 
painting  Donna  Flavia  and  Donna  Vittoria,  but 
when  he  came  to  paint  Donna  Apollonia's  por 
trait,  he  grew  very  strange.  His  eyes  would  con 
tract  as  he  looked  at  her,  and  he  would  gnaw  his 
lip  as  he  laid  the  colors  on  the  canvas.  He  grew 
pale  and  thin,  and  got  a  strange  nervous  look  as 
the  picture  went  on.  At  length  her  portrait  also 
was  finished,  except  some  touches  on  the  drapery 
in  the  corner.  She  came  approaching  with  her 
noiseless  step  to  look  at  it.  He  was  busy  paint 
ing,  and  did  not  know  she  was  by  him,  until  he 
looked  up  and  saw  her  at  his  side.  He  sprang 
up  straight,  shouted  out  at  her,  '  Avaunt  thee, 
Satan  ! '  threw  down  his  brush,  and  rushed  out  of 
the  palazzo.  Donna  Apollonia  turned  green,  but 
said  not  a  word.  Donna  Flavia  threw  her  arms 
round  her  neck,  kissing  her  and  caressing  her, 
and  Donna  Vittoria  walked  out  of  the  room.  The 
artist  would  never  come  back ;  and,  if  you  look 
close,  you  will  see  that  the  picture  is  unfinished 
in  the  corner  to  this  very  day." 

It  was  true.  As  Lilian  fixed  her  eyes  upon  the 
draperies,  there  was  an  obvious  want  of  finish  in 
the  lower  folds. 

"  The   week    before   the    wedding    came,   the 


226  LILIAN. 

palace  was  in  a  great  ferment  with  the  prepara 
tions  for  the  wedding  and  the  wedding -feast. 
Splendid  presents  were  sent  to  Donna  Flavia,  for, 
as  every  one  knows,  the  Ormanoni  are  connected 
with  all  the  great  families  in  Rome.  Donna 
Apollonia  sat  all  the  time  busily  embroidering  a 
silken  girdle  that  she  was  to  wear  at  the  wedding. 
It  was  white,  worked  with  purple  flowers.  She 
took  no  part  in  the  bustle,  but  sat  with  her  head 
bent  over  her  work  all  the  time,  day  and  night. 
For  that  whole  week  every  night,  light  shone 
through  the  crack  under  her  door;  and,  when 
some  one  remarked  on  it,  she  answered  that  she 
had  work  to  do  at  night  to  be  ready  for  the  wed 
ding.  One  day,  contrary  to  her  custom,  Donna 
Vittoria  came  near  her  and  looked  at  her  work. 
'  Your  flowers  look  poisonous,  Apollonia,'  she 
said ;  and  just  at  that  moment,  Donna  Apollonia 
gave  a  start,  and  ran  the  needle  deep  into  her 
hand.  The  blood  dropped,  but  Donna  Vittoria 
did  not  stop  to  pity  her,  and  went  on  her  way. 
"  The  week  passed;  —  it  was  the  eve  of  the  wed 
ding  day.  Donna  Flavia's  wedding-dress  of  white 
brocade,  embroidered  with  great  bunches  of  flowers 
as  large  as  life,  was  laid  in  her  room,  ready  for 
the  morning.  Her  parents  kissed  and  blessed  her, 


LILIAN.  227 

and  Donna  Vittoria  held  her  long  and  silently  in 
her  arms,  before  they  parted  for  the  night.  '  Feli- 
cissima  notte,'  said  Donna  Apollonia;  and  her  face 
was  as  white  as  a  ghost's. 

"  That  night  all  the  household  on  that  story  slept 
as  if  they  had  fallen  into  an  enchanted  slumber. 
It  was  very  late  before  any  one  awoke,  and  when 
they  did  wake,  their  eyes  were  heavy  and  their 
heads  swam.  They  did  not  know  what  was  the 
matter.  They  rose,  and,  as  soon  as  they  were 
ready,  they  hurried  into  Donna  Flavians  room,  to 
dress  her  for  her  marriage.  She  had  not  waked. 
They  called  her,  but  she  did  not  answer.  They 
threw  back  the  shutters,  and  let  the  sunlight  into 
the  room,  and  there,  in  her  bed  she  lay,  dead, 
with  a  bunch  of  flowers  which  the  Principe  had 
gathered  for  her  as  they  were  walking  in  the  gar 
den  the  day  before,  resting  on  the  pillow  by  her 
head. 

"  c  Oh,  the  flowers,  the  wicked  flowers,  they 
have  poisoned  her  to  death ! '  shrieked  Donna 
Apollonia,  who  was  with  the  first  who  entered  the 
room,  and  she  caught  them  up,  and  rushed  into 
the  antechamber,  where  was  a  brazier  of  burning 
coals,  and  threw  them  in  it.  A  suffocating  smell 
immediately  filled  the  antechamber,  and  Donna 


228  LILIAN. 

Flavia's  little  bird,  which  hung  there,  fluttered  its 
wings,  gasped,  and  fell  down  dead. 

"  They  sent  for  all  the  doctors  in  Rome,  but 
no  one  could  bring  her  to  life  again.  The  doc 
tors  said  that,  doubtless,  there  had  been  some 
poisonous  blossom  among  the  flowers  that  the 
Principe  had  gathered,  and  it  was  that  which  had 
killed  her. 

"  Donna  Apollonia  wept  and  raved  and  tore 
her  hair  ;  the  Duke  and  Duchess  were  crazy  with 
grief ;  the  Principe  rushed  about  like  a  madman  ; 
but  Donna  Vittoria  stood  like  a  stone  beside  her 
sister,  and  neither  wept  nor  spoke,  except  to  give 
the  necessary  orders,  for  the  father  and  mother 
were  in  such  a  state  that  no  one  thought  of  ap 
plying  "to  them.  She  had  her  sister  dressed  in 
her  bridal  robe  and  veil,  and  when  all  was  fin 
ished,  by  her  order  every  one  went  out  of  the 
room  and  left  her  alone  with  Donna  Flavia.  She 
stood  at  the  foot  of  the  bed  and  made  a  vow  never 
to  sleep  in  a  bed  nor  to  taste  meat  or  wine,  until 
she  had  avenged  her  sister's  death. 

"  She  watched  by  Donna  Flavia  until  they 
came  and  carried  her  body  to  the  church  ;  then 
she  went  to  her  father  and  mother  and  asked 
leave  to  go  into  retreat  in  a  convent  to  pray  for 


LILIAN.  229 

her  sister's  soul.  They  could  not  refuse  such  a 
pious  request,  so  she  went,  taking  with  her  Don 
na  Flavia's  little  dog.  She  stayed  there  until, 
before  the  year  was  out,  Donna  Apollonia  mar 
ried  the  Principe  di  Terracina,  who  was  to  have 
been  the  husband  of  Donna  Flavia.  He  was 
younger  than  she  was,  and  people  wondered  very 
much ;  but  she  had  bewitched  him  as  she  had  the 
Duke  and  Duchess  and  all  the  house,  and  he  was 
like  a  slave  to  her. 

"  After  Donna  Apollonia  was  married,  Donna 
Vittoria  left  the  convent  and  came  home.  Her 
parents  were  very  much  afraid  that  she  would 
make  herself  a  nun,  for  they  saw  that  she  never 
tasted  meat  or  wine,  and  the  ser\7ants  told  that 
her  bed  was  never  slept  in,  and  they  were  very 
anxious  to  marry  her  at  once.  But  she  told  them 
that  they  must  let  her  choose  a  husband  for  her 
self,  and  they  were  afraid  to  contradict  her,  lest 
she  should  make  herself  a  nun,  so  they  promised. 

"  Many  nobles  wanted  to  marry  her,  for  she 
was  handsome,  though  not  as  beautiful  as  Donna 
Flavia  had  been,  and  she  was  very  learned,  and 
she  composed  beautiful  poems  which  she  sang  to 
the  lute,  and  she  was  also  very  rich  ;  but  she 
waited  long  before  she  made  her  choice.  At 
20 


230  LILIAN. 

length  she  chose  the  Principe  Barberini,  who 
had  only  recently  lost  his  wife.  He  was  a  no 
bleman  of  great  soul  and  honor,  and  a  nephew 
of  the  Pope's.  He  was  a  friend  of  her  father's, 
and  of  course  a  great  many  years  older  than  she 
was.  But  before  she  promised  herself  to  him, 
she  told  him  of  her  vow,  how  she  was  sure  that 
Donna  Apollonia  had  poisoned  Donna  Flavia, 
and  how  she  had  vowed  never  to  sleep  in  a  bed 
nor  to  taste  meat  or  wine  until  she  had  avenged 
her  sister's  death.  And  the  Principe  took  a 
mighty  oath  to  aid  her  by  every  means  in  his 
power,  to  fulfil  her  vow.  So  they  were  mar 
ried.  Such  a  wedding  had  never  been  seen  in 
Rome.  All  the  noble  lords  and  ladies  of  the 
whole  city  and  country  round  filled  the  church, 
not  one  was  absent  save  Donna  Apollonia.  She 
sent  word  that  she  was  ill  and  could  not  come. 
She  also  sent  a  present,  a  silver  casket  with  a 
jewelled  key,  but  Donna  Vittoria  did  not  open 
the  casket,  when  it  was  brought  to  her,  and  it 
disappeared  and  nobody  ever  saw  it  again. 

"  After  the  wedding,  the  Duke  and  Duchess, 
by  Donna  Vittoria's  request,  went  to  Naples  to 
change  the  air,  and  at  her  desire,  they  left  with 
her  Donna  Flavia's  portrait. 


LILIAN.  231 

"  A  short  time  afterwards,  all  Rome  was  talk 
ing  of  a  fortune-teller,  who  had  come,  no  one 
knew  whence.  She  lived  in  a  little  dark  street 
near  the  Porta  Salaria,  and  her  door  was  opened 
only  at  midnight,  and  then  but  for  an  hour.  She 
would  tell  fortunes  .to  noblewomen  only.  No 
man  was  allowed  to  cross  her  threshold,  and  any 
woman  not  noble  was  instantly  detected  and  sent 
away.  She  was  immensely  old  and  hideously 
ugly,  people  said,  and  all  those  that  went  to  her 
agreed  that  her  eyes  pierced  them  through  and 
through,  and  that  her  voice  had  a  tone  of  au 
thority  in  it,  before  which  the  haughtiest  of  them 
quailed. 

"  Veiled  from  head  to  foot,  one  midnight  Don 
na  Apollonia  stood  at  the  low  door  in  the  little 
dark  street  and  knocked.  It  was  opened  by  in 
visible  hands  and  she  entered  a  dimly-lighted  hall. 
A  catafalque  of  black,  surrounded  by  extinguished 
candles  in  massy  silver  candlesticks,  stood  in  the 
midst  of  the  room,  which  was  hung  with  black ;  the 
ceiling  and  the  floor  were  also  covered  with  black. 

"  Donna  Apollonia  had  a  hard,  bold  heart,  but 
she  wTas  disquieted  at  the  ghastly  aspect  of  all 
around.  She  would  have  turned  back,  but  the 
door  whereby  she  had  entered  was  invisible.  As 


232  LILIAN. 

she  stood,  the  black  hangings  at  the  end  of  the 
room  slowly  opened,  and  she  heard  a  voice  say, 
4  Approach.'  Before  her,  in  another  dimly-light 
ed,  black-draped  room,  on  a  high,  throne-like 
seat,  sat  the  sorceress.  She  was  an  old  woman 
of  wrinkled  countenance  »and  stooping  figure. 
Her  eyes  fixed  upon  Donna  Apollonia  with  a 
look  that  sent  the  blood  to  her  wicked  heart. 
'  Approach,  unveil,'  said  the  fortune-teller,  and 
Donna  Apollonia  advanced  and  threw  back  her 
veil.  The  old  woman  looked  at  her  some  mo 
ments  without  speaking,  then,  c  What  do  you 
wish  from  me  ? '  she  said.  '  Good  mother,  I 
would  know  what  the  stars  have  in  store  for 
me,'  replied  Donna  Apollonia,  trying  to  steady 
her  voice.  '  Hold  out  your  hand.'  Donna  Apol 
lonia  held  out  her  hand  and  the  old  woman  bent 
over  it.  She  studied  it  for  a  while,  then,  — '  You 
were  born  afar,'  she  said.  '  Your  father  died  sud 
denly,  when  you  were  a  child.  Your  mother  died 
but  a  few  years  ago.  Then  your  line  of  life  breaks 
into  a  long  journey.  Your  journey  ends  and  your 
line  of  life  lies  fair  and  even.  But  here,'  she  said, 
sinking  her  voice,  — '  here  blood  crosses  the  line  ! ' 
Donna  Apollonia's  knees  shook.  '  Whose  blood, 
—  speak  ! '  —  she  said  in  a  deep,  menacing  tone. 


LILIAN.  233 

Donna  Apollonia  was  dumb.  The  sorceress 
stamped  on  the  floor.  A  curtain  at  the  end  of 
the  room  shook.  She  stamped  again.  It  opened, 
and,  as  through  a  black  shadow,  Donna  Apollo 
nia  saw  the  apparition  of  Donna  Flavia  as  she 
stood  when  the  artist  painted  her.  She  fell  on 
her  knees  and  clasped  her  hands  over  her  eyes. 
'  Speak,'  repeated  the  sorceress  in  awful  tones. 
4  It  was  my  cousin  Flavia,'  said  Donna  Apollo 
nia  in  a  thick,  hoarse  voice. 

"  The  sorceress  clapped  her  hands  together. 
Another  curtain  opened  and  from  the  recess  be 
hind,  the  familiars  of  the  Holy  Office  advanced 
and  laid  hold  of  Donna  Apollonia.  She  gave  a 
horrid,  strangled  cry,  and  turned  to  the  sorcer 
ess.  An  enamelled  mask  lay  on  the  floor,  a  tow 
ering  figure  with  terrible  eyes  stood  where  the 
sorceress  had  been,  and  she  saw  her  cousin,  Don 
na  Vittoria,  before  her. 

"  No  one  ever  knew  what  had  become  of  Don 
na  Apollonia.  Search  was  made  for  her  every- 
wheres,  but  no  clue  was  ever  found. 

"  Four  weeks  after  that  night,  a  mass  for  the 
dead  was  celebrated  in  the  Barberini  Chapel,  and 
Donna  Vittoria  again  slept  in  a  bed,  and  tasted 
of  meat  and  wine." 

20* 


234  LILIAN. 

"  That's  the  story,  my  beautiful  lady,"  said  old 
Anina  as  she  ended.  "  Now  shall  I  tell  you  an 
other  ?  " 

"  Mille  grazie,  Anina,  not  to-day.  I  am  go 
ing  now  to  walk  in  the  garden,"  replied  Lilian, 
anxious  to  escape  from  the  tainted  atmosphere  of 
crime  which  seemed  to  exhale  from  the  portrait 
of  Donna  Apollonia,  her  pallid  face  lighted  by 
her  emerald  gleaming  eyes,  from  the  contempla 
tion  of  Donna  Flavia's  ill-fated  loveliness,  and 
Donna  Vittoria's  deep,  sad,  penetrating  gaze. 

"  Another  day,  then,  as  soon  as  your  beautiful 
ladyship  pleases.  For  I  know  them  all,  yes,  all ! 
As  many  as  there  are,  so  many  I  know,"  said  old 
Anina,  and  she  took  her  leave. 

"  Oh,  don't  go  in  there.  Come  down  into  the 
garden  with  me,"  exclaimed  Lilian,  seizing  Mr. 
Clinton's  hand  as  she  met  him  in  the  antecham 
ber. 

"  What,  has  old  Anina  been  frightening  you 
with  her  stories  ?  "  he  responded,  looking  down 
on  her  face. 

"  No,  not  exactly,  but  it  makes  me  feel  uncom 
fortable  to  be  in  the  room  with  the  picture  of  that 
woman  in  green  brocade.  I  want  to  get  into  the 


LILIAN.  235 

sunlight,  and  see  the  flowers,  and  think  of  some 
thing  else,"  said  Lilian,  as  they  descended  the 
broad  staircase.  And  she  passed  the  marble  sar 
cophagus  without  her  usual  quiver,  so  filled  was 
her  mind  with  old  Anina's  story. 

Through  the  pleasant  paths  winding  among  the 
little  flower-sprinkled  lawns  they  passed,  silently 
enjoying  the  light,  the  warmth,  the  beauty  around 
them.  The  heavy  softness  of  the  day  filled  Lil 
ian's  frame  with  languid  delight.  Not  a  cloud 
was  in  the  sky,  not  a  shadow  on  the  landscape. 

"  Look  at  Giacomo,"  said  Lilian  as  they  turned 
into  the  long  terrace  walk.  "  See  what  a  mel 
ancholy  air  he  has,  standing  there  with  folded 
arms,  looking  at  the  laurel-tree  behind  the  sar 
cophagus.  What  can  be  the  matter  with  him  ?  " 

"  Do  you  not  see,  —  the  tree  is  dying,"  replied 
Mr.  Clinton  ;  and  as  he  spoke,  as  if  his  words  had 
detached  them  from  their  stems,  down  floated  a 
few  yellow  leaves  through  the  sunny,  stirless  air. 

"  What  is  it,  Giacomo  ?  "  said  Lilian  as  they 
approached.  "  Why  do  you  look  so  mournful  ?  " 

"  Ah,  Signora  mia,  I  am  sorry  because  of  the 
tree.  Its  first  leaf  turned  the  day  that  the  Sig 
nora  and  the  Signore  came  here,  and  now  see 
how  yellow  it  is  !  I  must  cut  it  down,  and  that 


236  LILIAN. 

grieves  me.  The  garden  does  not  look  natural 
to  me  again  for  a  long  time  after  it  has  lost  a 
tree,  and  then,  though  it  be  only  a  tree,  yet  it  is 
something  that  dies,  and  Death  is  always  melan 
choly." 

The  faces  of  his  hearers  saddened  and  they 
walked  on.  As  they  passed  before  the  sarcopha 
gus,  a  new,  motionless  gust  shook  down  the  yel 
low  leaves  upon  them. 


LVI. 

LILIAN,  in  her  travelling-dress,  walked  slowly 
through  the  vast,  shadowy  rooms  of  the  old  Ital 
ian  villa.  Her  heart  was  heavy,  her  face  was 
sad.  She  stood  and  gazed,  as  if  to  imprint  the 
aspect  of  each  room  indelibly  upon  her  memory ; 
the  saloon,  with  its  galleried  portraits,  its  antique 
furnishing,  the  sunlight  pouring  in  broad  floods 
through  the  heavily-cased  windows,  thrown  open 
to  admit  the  morning  air ;  the  ample  dining-room, 
with  its  dark,  panelled  walls  and  buffets  of  shin 
ing  oak  ;  her  own  room,  its  walls  curiously  adorned 
with  mouldings  of  gilded  arabesques,  its  frescoed 
ceiling,  whence  laughing  children  bent,  throwing 
wreaths  of  flowers  down  on  the  sleepers  below,  its 


LILIAN.  237 

heavy  commodes  of  variegated  woods,  mounted  in 
gilded  brass  and  supporting  slabs  of  Asiatic  mar 
bles,  its  toilet-table  with  its  small  swinging  mir 
ror  set  in  chiselled  bronze,  the  lofty  bed,  its  frame 
richly  carved  with  stories  of  ancient  Jewish  loves ; 
all  these  she  looked  upon  as  we  look  upon  the  face 
of  a  friend  we  love,  and  are  to  see  no  more. 

She  passed  out  upon  the  broad,  stone  balcony 
and  gazed  towards  the  distant  hills.  Never  had 
they  looked  so  sadly  beautiful  before.  There 
seemed  something  reproachful  in  the  sunny  still 
ness  of  the  Campagna.  Her  eyes  wandered  over 
the  rich  luxuriance  of  the  garden  below,  so  peace 
ful  in  its  solitude.  They  fell  upon  the  white  sar 
cophagus.  The  tree  that  had  stood  behind  it  was 
gone.  It  stared  up  at  her  from  the  sunlight,  blank, 
vacant,  foreboding.  A  chill  swept  Lilian.  She 
drew  back.  An  angry  spot  flushed  out  upon 
her  forehead.  Her  brows  knit.  Her  lips  closed 
firmly.  "  Was  she  then  so  weak  !  Had  a 
marble  stone  power  to  terrify  her  !  " 

She  passed  swiftly  down  the  wide  staircase,  with 
its  banded  sunlight,  through  the  dark  entrance- 
hall,  into  the  garden.  She  stood  before  the  voice 
less,  threatening  shell.  She  laid  her  hand  upon 
it.  She  passed  in  slow,  deliberate  review  each 


238  LILIAN. 

figure  of  the  gleeful,  dancing  chain.  Around  it 
she  glided,  still  she  saw  the  same  joyous  troop, 
revelling  in  marble  mockery  of  life.  She  passed 
to  the  farther  side,  shaded  until  that  day  by  the 
woven  branches  of  the  laurel-tree.  The  dance 
had  ceased.  Aghast  on  either  side,  the  dancers 
were  fleeing  from  one  figure  in  the  centre,  all 
save  two,  —  a  maiden  and  a  man.  They  stood, 
their  arms  wound  around  each  other,  the  maid 
en's  face  hidden  on  her  lover's  bosom  in  a  vain 
attempt  to  find  there  safety  from  her  approaching 
doom.  By  their  side,  the  Genius  of  Death,  with 
inverted  torch,  its  veil  thrown  back,  laid  its  hand 
upon  the  maiden's  shoulder.  The  moment  of 
separation  had  come.  She  must  leave  her  lover. 
But  was  it  for  this  that  Lilian's  breath  failed,  her 
head  swam,  and  her  knees  sank  under  her  ?  Was 
it  that  antique  record  of  woe  that  reflected  such 
answering  terror  on  her  face  ?  No !  From  the 
reverted"  veil  of  the  spectral  visitant,  its  pure  out 
lines  sculptured  line  for  line,  looked  out  with  re 
gretful  yet  unyielding  monition,  the  lifelike  pre 
sentment  of  Mira.  It  was  Mira  who  was  tearing 
the  maiden  from  that  fond  embrace,  Mira  who 
with  unwavering  hand  was  leading  her  from  the 
gladness  of  her  youthful  love  into  the  anguished 


LILIAN.  239 

night  of  separation.  How  many  years  had  passed 
since  Lilian  had  seen  that  face  !  —  and  there  it 
stood,  not  chiselled  in  marble  stone,  but  a  pres 
ence,  dimly  foreboding,  prophet  of  coming  woe. 
As  she  gazed  with  sinking  terror,  it  seemed  to 
detach  itself  from  the  marble,  to  expand  and  fill 
the  air.  Lilian  tottered  and  clung  to  the  sarcoph 
agus.  A  hasty  step  sprang  through  the  hall. 

"  Lilian,  Good  God,  what  is  it !  "  exclaimed 
her  husband  as  he  caught  her  in  his  arms. 

She  hid  her  face  in  his  bosom  and  pointed  to 
the  sarcophagus.  He  stood  for  an  instant  mo 
tionless,  holding  her  fast.  No  word  told  her  that 
he  saw  the  apparition  of  his  lost  wife.  Then  she 
was  lifted  in  his  arms,  carried  through  the  hall, 
placed  in  the  travelling-carriage,  and  she  felt  her 
self  borne  rapidly  away. 

She  looked  up  at  Mr.  Clinton.  His  face  was 
deathly  pale.  As  he  met  her  imploring  gaze  he 
folded  her  close  to  his  heart,  but  spoke  not. 

She  never  knew  if  he  had  read  like  her  that 
writing  on  the  wall. 


240  LILIAN. 

LVII. 

To  the  glowing  South,  to  the  land  of  the  myr 
tle,  and  the  palm,  the  golden  orange  and  the  fra 
grant  lime,  the  scarlet  pomegranate  and  the  lus 
cious  jig,  the  deep  blue  heaven  and  the  deeper, 
bluer  sea ;  to  a  villa,  through  whose  cool  cham 
bers  the  ceaseless  murmur  of  the  waves  below 
made  gentle  music,  over  whose  balconies  jasmines 
and  lemon -trees  scattered  their  snowy  blossoms 
before  the  gliding  footsteps  of  the  low  whispering 
breeze,  —  thither  Mr.  Clinton  bore  Lilian,  there 
they  passed  the  long  days  and  starlit  nights  of  the 
Italian  summer.  And  they  were  happy. 

True,  —  as  Mr.  Clinton  looked  on  the  brightly- 
glittering  waters,  a  half  transparent  figure  would 
sometimes  flit  before  him.  As  the  wavelets  broke 
on  the  smooth,  shining  sands,  he  would  sometimes 
hear  the  far-off  echo  of  a  silent  voice.  But  he 
would  turn  and  look  on  Lilian's  gentle  face,  — 
and  the  vision  would  vanish,  and  the  far-off  echo 
cease,  and  the  unforgotten  grief  rest  in  its  grave 
again. 

And  Lilian  ?  Every  need  of  her  heart,  every 
aspiration  of  her  nature  was  fulfilled. 

No   sudden,   forced   development  of  her  affec- 


LILIAN.  241 

tions  had  brought  trouble  into  her  soul.  Her 
present  was  the  perfect  completion  of  her  past. 
In  harmonious  succession,  in  increasing  gradation, 
Mr.  Clinton  had  aroused  the  profoundest  emotions 
of  her  opening  life,  and  each  retained  its  sweetness 
and  its  power.  The  child's  reverence  deepened 
with  holy  trustfulness,  the  maiden's  affection  ha 
loed  with  delicate  reserve  the  impassioned  love 
with  which  her  whole  being  was  transfused.  Day 
followed  night  in  golden  circles  of  peace  unshad 
owed,  joy  ineffable.  The  protecting  care,  the  ten 
der  respect,  the  penetrating  passion  which  filled 
the  very  air  she  breathed,  seemed  as  a  wall  be 
tween  her  and  the  distant  world  without.  If  the 
remembrance  of  the  dread  that  had  smitten  her, 
of  the  threatening  omen  that  had  flashed  out  upon 
her,  still  lived,  it  was  as  a  little  cloud,  no  bigger 
than  a  man's  hand,  resting  low  on  the  horizon  of 
the  sun-filled  sky. 

Their's  was  the  perfection  of  human  union,  the 
fulfilment  of  God's  sweetest,  most  glorious  thought 
for  man.  And  as  fragrant  incense,  floated  ever 
upward  from  their  hearts,  the  still,  ceaseless  an 
them, — 

"  Thanks,    O   great   God !      Thanks   for  life ! 
Thanks  for  love  !     Thanks  for  each  other !  " 
21 


242  LILIAN. 

LVIII. 

THERE  was  no  moon,  but  the  large,  bright  stars 
were  reflected  in  silver  lines  upon  the  water,  as 
Mr.  Clinton  and  Lilian  descended  to  the  shore, 
where  a  fishing-boat,  with  its  picturesque  lateen 
sail,  its  flaming  torches,  and  its  bronzed,  flashing- 
eyed  crew  awaited  them. 

"  We  shall  have  good  luck  to-night,"  said  Bar- 
tolomeo,  steadying  the  boat  against  the  little  jetty 
as  Lilian  took  her  place.  "  The  fishes  will  all 
flock  after  us,  to  look  at  the  beautiful  face  of  the 
Signora.  Our  nets  will  be  full." 

The  sail  hung  heavily  against  the  mast,  for  the 
air  was  breathlessly  still.  The  fishermen  bent  to 
their  oars,  and  rowed  out  to  the  open  sea.  The 
torches  shed  broad,  red  bands  of  light  upon  the 
black  water,  and  illumined  the  swarthy  forms  and 
faces  before  Lilian,  as  they  rocked  backwards  and 
forwards,  keeping  time  to  their  oars. 

"  Sing  to  us  something,"  said  Mr.  Clinton  ;  "  it 
would  please  the  Signora  much." 

"  Anything  to  please  the  beautiful  Signora," 
responded  the  spokesman  of  the  party ;  and,  after 
a  few  words  interchanged  with  his  companions, 
the  rich  Italian  voices  joined,  raising  a  canzone, 


LILIAN.  243 

free,  bold,  vigorous,  each  strophe  ending  in  a  pro 
longed  minor  modulation,  inexpressibly  mournful 
in  its  effect. 

There  was  something  strangely  pleasurable  and 
exciting  in  the  sharp,  strongly-accented  contrasts 
that  reigned  around.  Lilian's  face  reflected  each 
change  of  the  music ;  her  eyes  mirrored  in  suc 
cession  the  streaming,  sparkling  torches,  and  the 
dark,  mysterious  sea. 

The  boat  reached  the  distant  fishing -ground. 
The  music  gave  place  to  the  answering  cries  with 
which  the  fishermen  disentangled,  shook  out,  and 
sank  the  woven  nets.  Then,  in  profoundest  si 
lence,  they  watched  and  waited  for  their  finny 
prey. 

The  torches  of  the  neighboring  boats  dotted  the 
water  here  and  there ;  and  against  their  light  the 
black  outlines  of  the  various  crews  stood  out  in 
bold  relief,  touched  with  crimson  reflections. 

They  had  lain  some  time  in  silence,  when  Lil 
ian  laid  her  hand  upon  Mr.  Clinton's. 

44  See  that  little  cloud,"  she  said. 

A  cloud  no  bigger  than  a  man's  hand  rested 
upon  the  horizon. 

"  Guardi,  Bartolomeo ! "  said  Mr.  Clinton, 
hastily,  bending  forward,  and  pointing  to  the 
scarcely  discernible  vapor. 


244  LILIAN. 

"  Gesii!"  he  exclaimed.  "  Presto!  presto!  pull 
in  the  nets  !  —  the  tempest !  " 

Cries  of  hurry  and  alarm  sounded  over  the 
water,  as  the  boats  around  hurriedly  drew  up  their 
nets  and  closely  furled  their  sails. 

Rapidly  rose  the  cloud,  darker  and  darker,  more 
and  more  threatening.  No  breath  ruffled  the  sea ; 
it  was  still  and  smooth  as  a  black  mirror.  The 
fishermen  turned  their  faces  anxiously  upward. 
As  the  cloud  reached  the  zenith,  "  Eccolo !  "  said 
Bartolomeo ;  and,  with  a  mighty  shrieking  roar, 
the  tempest  burst  upon  them.  In  one  instant, 
the  sea  was  white  as  milk.  The  boat  quivered 
as  with  fright,  plunged  as  if  to  seek  refuge  under 
the  waves,  then,  rising,  fled  amain  before  the  fury 
of  the  blast. 

Lilian  leaned  against  Mr.  Clinton's  shoulder. 
She  spoke  no  word,  but,  as  his  encircling  arm 
rested  beneath  her  heart,  he  could  feel  its  rapid, 
heavy  pulsations. 

The  storm-cloud  spread  until  it  covered  the  sky 
with  its  impenetrable  mantle.  The  torches  were 
extinguished.  In  total  darkness,  they  drove  before 
the  wind.  Through  the  vengeful  howling  of  the 
tempest,  Lilian  could  hear  the  terrified  invocations 
of  the  fishermen,  as  they  called  upon  their  patron 
saints. 


LILIAN.  245 

She  could  tell  that  the  waves  were  rapidly  ris 
ing,  by  the  increased  motion  of  the  boat,  and  by 
the  occasional  dash  of  cold  water  upon  her,  as 
they  broke  over  the  low  gunwale.  Firmly  Mr. 
Clinton  held  her  to  his  side,  and  once  in  the  dark 
ness,  amid  the  howling  of  the  storm,  she  felt  his 
lips  pressed  to  her  forehead. 

Each  moment  threatened  to  whelm  them  in  the 
cold  abyss  beneath  ;  each  moment  the  creaking, 
groaning  boat  tossed  more  wildly  ;  each  moment 
the  waves  broke  higher  over  her  dipping  sides. 
Fast  in  the  darkness,  the  fishermen  baled  against 
the  ever-deepening  water. 

Lilian  sat  clinging  around  her  husband's  neck, 
strained  close  in  his  embrace.  "  Was  their  happy 
life  to  have  this  fearful  ending ! "  Long  past 
events  in  rapidly  changing  succession  rose  before 
her  memory.  Snatches  of  songs  learnt  in  her 
childish  days,  burdens  of  airs  long  unheard,  min 
gled  with  the  quick  dashing  of  the  waves  and  the 
harsh  shrieking  of  the  blast. 

At  length,  down,  as  though  the  heavens  had 
fallen  in  one  vast  cataract,  down  dashed  the  tor 
rents  of  the  rain. 

"  Thanks  be  to  the  Holy  Virgin,  the  Padre 
Eterno,  and  all  the  Saints  I "  she  heard  Barto- 
21* 


246  LILIAN. 

lomeo's  voice  exclaim.  And  the  fishermen  baled 
with  the  redoubled  energy  of  hope. 

The  mass  of  falling  water  seemed  to  beat  down 
the  furious  waves.  The  boat  plunged  less  deeply, 
the  water  poured  less  heavily  over  Lilian's  drip 
ping  form.  The  wind  was  perceptibly  sinking, 
though  still  the  boat  drove  fast  over  the  unseen 
expanse  of  the  dashing,  rolling  sea.  By  degrees 
the  rain  ceased,  the  tempest  raged  itself  into  calm, 
and  on  the  pale  gray  of  the  sky,  they  saw  the 
faint  red  flush  of  dawn. 

"  Thank  God  !  "  burst  from  Mr.  Clinton's  lips. 

"  Thank  God  !  "  reechoed  from  Lilian's  voice. 
She  lifted  her  eyes  and  saw  through  the  pale 
light,  her  husband's  face,  the  face  she  had  thought 


never  to  see  again. 


"  Capri,"  shouted  Bartolomeo,  as  he  pointed  to 
a  steep  castle-like  islet  dimly  rising  from  the  toss 
ing  waves. 

Mr.  Clinton  looked  hurriedly  around.  A  spasm 
passed  over  him.  They  were  off  the  Bay  of  Na 
ples  ! 

Lilian  felt  with  sympathetic  anguish  the  sharp- 
toothed  memories  that  were  fastening  upon  him, 
pourjng  up  from  the  cold  depths  of  the  cruel  sea. 
She  clasped  her  hands  together  and  bowed  her 
head  to  conceal  her  fast-falling  tears. 


LILIAN.  247 

Mr.  Clinton  raised  his  gaze  from  the  dark  chasm 
where  it  had  plunged.  He  turned  it  upon  her. 

"  My  wife,"  he  said.  She  lifted  her  head,  and 
as  the  bow  of  peace  that  half  veiled  in  mist,  hangs 
over  Niagara's  flood,  so  the  look  of  love  in  her 
swimming  eyes  beamed  on  the  swift-rushing  tor 
rent  of  his  troubled  thoughts. 

"  We  must  make  for  Capri,  Signore,"  said  Bar- 
tolomeo.  "  The  boat  leaks  badly."  And  tow 
ards  the  precipitous  rock  the  fishermen  pulled  in 
haste. 

The  waves  broke  heavily  upon  the  brown  walls 
of  the  rocky  fortress,  their  shining  green  masses 
and  sparkling  white  crests  leaping  aloft  as  if  to 
scale  its  inaccessible  height,  then  with  an  angry 
roar,  rushing  back  again  to  renew  their  attack, 
again,  hissing  and  foaming,  to  retreat.  No  land 
ing  seemed  possible,  until  doubling  the  cliffs,  they 
saw  a  green,  sloping  shore,  peacefully  extending, 
in  the  lee  of  which  the  waves  were  rocking  qui 
etly,  as  if  unconscious  of  the  battle  raging  with 
out. 

The  fishermen  threw  themselves  into  the  shal 
low  water  and  dragged  their  shattered  vessel  tow 
ards  the  beach.  Mr.  Clinton,  lifting  Lilian  in  his 
arms,  bore  her  to  the  shore. 


248  LILIAN. 

High  upon  the  grassy  ascent  stood  a  rude  hut, 
built  of  discolored  driftwood.  Thither  he  carried 
her,  chilled  and  exhausted,  and  knocked  loudly  at 
the  door. 

"  Santissima  Vergine,  what  has  happened  ?  " 
responded  a  high,  cracked  voice  within. 

"  Strangers,  —  a  lady,"  answered  Mr.  Clinton. 

An  old  man  in  half-donned  attire  hastily  opened 
the  door,  and  with  a  shower  of  invocations  and 
ejaculations,  received  his  unexpected  guests. 

"Fire,  can  you  make  us  a  fire?"  said  Mr. 
Clinton  as  he  bore  Lilian  into  the  shelter  of  the 
hut,  and  laying  her  down,  spread  over  her  the 
shaggy  sheep-skins,  the  only  coverings  the  dwell 
ing  afforded. 

"  Oh,  yes,  my  blessed  Signore.  I  will  make  in 
one  very  smallest  instant  a  great  fire  to  warm  the 
lady's  heart."  And  rushing  out  he  returned  speed 
ily,  bearing  a  load  of  broken  driftwood,  shattered 
planks  and  shivered  spars. 

"  The  sea  provides  for  us,  Signore,  you  see," 
said  the  old  man,  chuckling  as  he  kindled  the 
dry,  quickly-blazing  fragments.  "  Now  I  will  run, 
prestissimo,  up  to  Maddalena,  my  daughter,  and 
bring  her  down  to  wait  on  the  lady."  And  the 
old  man  departed  in  haste. 


LILIAN.  249 

The  cheerful  blaze  had  already  begun  to  warm 
Lilian's  cold  and  stiffened  limbs,  when  the  door 
of  the  hut  was  opened,  and  a  young  woman  of 
regular  features,  and  low,  sturdy  form,  entered. 
Her  proud  eyes  softened,  and  her  firm  mouth  re 
laxed,  as  she  beheld  the  pallid  countenance  of  the 
lady.  She  turned  to  Mr.  Clinton. 

"  Signore,  you  must  leave  us.  The  signora 
must  be  put  into  dry,  warm  clothes."  And  un 
fastening  a  bundle  that  she  had  brought  with  her, 
she  spread  the  gay  articles  of  festal  attire  it  con 
tained  around  the  sparkling  fire. 

"  I  will  take  care  of  her  as  if  she  were  my  own 
sister,"  said  Maddalena,  as  Mr.  Clinton  with  an 
anxious  look  at  Lilian,  withdrew. 

The  fire  lighted  up  the  hut  with  a  ruddy  glare, 
and  flashed  upon  Maddalena's  brown  cheek,  her 
red  boddice,  and  black,  plaited  hair,  as  she  drew 
forward  a  rude  settle,  and  taking  Lilian  in  her 
arms  as  if  she  had  been  a  child,  removed  her  wet 
clothing,  chafed  her  cold  hands  and  feet,  and  robed 
her  in  her  own  fresh  bridal  attire. 

"  Ah  vedi,  Signora,  quanto  sei  bella  !  "  she  ex 
claimed  triumphantly  as  she  completed  Lilian's 
toilet,  gazing  with  admiration  at  her,  as  she  stood 
in  the  full-plaited  sleeves  and  chemisette,  the  laced 


250  LILIAN. 

scarlet  boddice,  and  the  short,  brilliantly  striped 
skirt.  "  How  much  handsomer  this  dress  is  than 
that  you  had  on  !  "  and  she  glanced  contempt 
uously  at  the  garments  of  costly  fabric  which  Lil 
ian  had  quitted. 

"  Now,  Maddalena,  you  may  call  the  Signore. 
He  will  thank  you  as  much  as  I  do  for  all  your 
kindness." 

"  No  need  of  thanks,"  replied  Maddalena. 
"  What  a  heart  of  stone  it  would  be  that  did  not 
melt  at  the  sight  of  such  a  face  as  yours !  "  And 
she  looked  with  an  air  of  protection  and  superi 
ority  upon  the  delicately -cut  features  of  the 
American. 

Lilian  sat  by  her  husband,  beside  the  flickering, 
yellow  flames  of  the  fire, — too  weary,  too  exhaust 
ed  to  think,  yet  enjoying,  with  quiet  delight,  the 
safety,  the  stillness,  the  warmth. 

Gradually  mingling  with  the  sense  of  comfort, 
sleep  stole  over  her.  Her  head  drooped  on  her 
shoulder,  her  eyelids  closed.  She  had  a  dim  con 
sciousness  of  being  placed  upon  something  rough 
and  warm,  then  she  knew  nothing  more  till  she 
was  wakened  by  a  heavy  knock  at  the  door,  a 
rough  voice  outside,  — 


LILIAN.  251 

"  All  is  ready,  Signori,  and  the  wind  is  fair." 
Hastily  she  resumed  her  own  dried  garments, 
and,  placing  in  the  wondering  hand  of  the  old 
man  a  gold  coin,  to  be  given  to  Maddalena  after 
their  departure,  she  descended  with  Mr.  Clinton 
to  the  shore,  where  the  fishermen  stood  waiting 
by  the  rocking  boat. 

An  indescribable  dewy  freshness  filled  the  air. 
The  morning  sun  in  glad  effulgence  shone  from 
the  deep,  transparent  sky,  while  before  him  were 
fleeing  trailing  white  clouds,  the  scattered  rear 
guard  of  the  tempest.  The  rejoicing  sea  danced 
and  sparkled  in  the  sunlight,  and  across  its  glit 
tering  expanse  rose  the  gently  curving  shore, 
veiled  in  soft,  ethereal  blue.  White  birds  rose, 
wheeled  and  chased  each  other  in  playful  sport 
over  the  glancing  waves,  and  little  boats  stretched 
their  sails  to  the  fresh  breeze,  and  sped  fast  on 
their  joyful  way. 

Again  Lilian  and  her  husband  were  in  the 
rocking  boat  upon  the  sea.  In  darkness  and  dis 
may,  they  had  driven  before  the  tempest  far  from 
their  home.  In  sunlight  arid  gladness,  they  sought 
again  its  happy  shelter.  And  the  waves  bore 
them  on,  —  the  waves,  restless  as  human  life, 


252  LILIAN. 

changeful  as  human  weal,  obedient  in  their  rest 
less  changefulness  to  the  One  Inscrutable  Will. 


LIX. 

LILIAN,  clothed  in  black,  stood  by  the  open 
window  of  the  palazzo.  The  discordant,  mingling 
cries  and  gay  laughter  of  the  Neapolitan  crowd 
came  from  the  street  beneath,  unheard  by  her 
absent  ear.  She  stood  gazing  between  the  flower 
ing  oleanders  and  the  tall  rose-trees  of  the  balcony, 
her  face  turned  towards  the  scene  beyond.  The 
waves,  sparkling  with  diamond  light,  broke  in  soft 
ripples  on  the  yellow  sands.  The  sky  above  was 
one  vast  resplendent  vault  of  blue,  unflecked  by 
even  the  smallest  cloud,  save  where,  behind  her 
and  out  of  sight,  from  the  summit  of  Vesuvius, 
rose  a  dark,  taper  column  of  smoke.  But  Lilian's 
eyes  saw  not  the  beauty  whereon  they  rested. 
Their  sight  was  veiled  with  sorrowful  memories. 

A  step  approached  her.  Mr.  Clinton  took  her 
hand  in  his,  and  stood  silently  beside  her. 

Lilian  looked  up  wistfully. 

"  If  I  could  only  have  seen  her  once  more ! " 
Her  eyes  filled  with  tears.  She  was  pale.  She 
had  suffered. 


LILIAN.  253 

"I  am  going  to  ask  you  to  do  what  will  cost 
you  an  effort,"  said  Mr.  Clinton.  "  The  Thorn 
tons,  as  you  know,  were  to  have  sailed  to-night 
in  the  Ischia,  for  Civita  Vecchia,  but  they  are  de 
tained.  The  son  has  got  into  trouble  of  some 
sort.  I  have  just  received  a  note  from  old  Mr. 
Thornton,  asking  me  to  come  there  at  once.  It 
is  the  hour  I  appointed  to  go  with  the  Vanes  to 
Santa  Lucia.  The  permission  is  given  only  to 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Clinton  and  party.  They  cannot 
go  without  one  of  us.  Can  you  take  my  place  ? 
The  carriage  is  at  the  door." 

"  If  you  wish  it,  certainly,"  replied  Lilian  ;  and 
in  a  few  moments  she  stood  before  her  husband, 
in  her  sombre  drapery  and  sweeping  black  veil. 

"There  is  the  permission  and  the  passport;" 
and  he  gave  the  papers  into  her  hand.  "  I  hope 
the  air  will  bring  a  little  color  into  your  cheeks," 
he  said,  looking  fondly  on  her  sweet,  sad  counte 
nance,  as  he  led  her  down  the  staircase  and 
placed  her  in  the  carriage.  "  We  shall  meet 
again  in  two  hours."  And  he  watched  the  car 
riage  till  it  was  out  of  sight. 


.  254  LILIAN. 

LX. 

"  How  you  shudder,  Mrs.  Clinton,"  said  young 
Harry  Vane,  as,  leaning  on  his  arm,  Lilian  crossed 
the  threshold  of  the  Hospital  of  Santa  Lucia.  "  I 
shall  believe  that  some  one  is  walking  over  your 
grave." 

Lilian  forced  a  smile,  and  proceeded. 

Mr.  Clinton  had  not  known  how  great  was  the 
demand  that  he  was  making  upon  his  wife,  when 
he  asked  of  her  to  take  his  place.  The  terror  of 
that  last  interview  with  Roger,  those  sinister 
words  addressed  to  her  so  directly  before  his 
ghastly,  self-inflicted  death,  had  produced  a  per 
manent  effect  upon  her  imagination.  The  idea 
of  any  contact  with  madness  was  acutely  painful 
to  her. 

As  she  passed  the  heavy  portal  of  that  sad 
palace  of  wandering  Thought,  an  indescribable 
distress  came  over  Lilian.  A  nameless  fear  seemed 
creeping  before  her,  an  invisible  dread  gliding  be 
hind  her.  Lurking  shadows  seemed  peering  in 
through  the  barred  windows,  dim  apprehensions 
hiding  in  the  dark  niches. 

They  passed  through  spacious  halls  and  stately 
corridors.  The  wildly -gleaming  eyes,  the  capri- 


LILIAN.  255 

cious  motions,  the  incoherent  words  around  her, 
filled  Lilian  with  terrified  pity,  with  aching  com 
passion.  At  every  step  her  distress  increased. 
She  strove  against  it.  She  would  not  yield  to  it. 
She  compelled  herself  to  listen  to  the  learned, 
benevolent  physician  who  was  conducting  them. 
She  strove  in  vain.  The  walls  seemed  curtained 
with  sinister  fantasies ;  chill  ripples  of  fear  shud 
dered  along  the  pavement.  The  gliding  presence 
behind  pressed  ever  closer  and  closer.  It  seemed 
to  touch  her.  Lilian  paused. 

"  I  can  go  no  farther,"  she  said.  "  I  will  wait 
here  until  you  return." 

The  party  passed  on.  The  sound  of  their  steps 
and  of  their  voices  died  away.  Lilian  was  left 
alone  with  the  attendant,  —  a  black- veiled  nun. 

44  Shall  I  not  bring  you  a  glass  of  water,  Sig- 
nora  ?  "  said  the  nun,  approaching  her.  "  You 
look  pale?" 

44  No,  many  thanks,  my  sister,"  replied  Lilian. 
"  But  do  not  go.  Stay  by  me.  Will  you  not 
talk  to  me  a  little.  Tell  me  something  about  these 
who  are  in  your  care.  Which  are  the  gentlest  ? 
Which  do  you  love  the  best  ?  " 

44  Ah,  dear  lady,  I  love  them  all.  But  there 
are  two  whom  I  pity  the  most.  Do  you  see  op- 


256  LILIAN. 

posite  that  young  girl  walking  up  and  down,  look 
ing  in  every  corner  ?     That  is  poor  Teresita." 

"  What  is  she  trying  to  find  ?  " 

"  She  is  seeking  her  little  sister.  One  day  she 
took  the  child  far  among  the  hills  for  a  walk. 
The  child  got  tired  of  gathering  flowers,  and 
wanted  to  play  at  hide-and-seek.  Teresita  did  as 
it  wished,  for  it  was  her  darling.  Their  mother 
was  dead,  and  she  had  the  whole  care  of  it.  The 
little  thing  hid  at  length,  so  that  Teresita  could 
not  find  it.  She  looked  all  the  afternoon,  she 
looked  all  the  night.  When  she  did  not  come 
home  with  the  child,  her  father  went  in  search 
of  them.  His  neighbors  joined  him.  They  found 
Teresita  the  next  morning.  They  never  found 
the  child.  Whether  it  had  wandered  into  some 
cave  and  could  not  make  its  way  out,  or  whether 
the  banditti  had  carried  it  off,  no  one  knows. 
After  that  Teresita  would  do  nothing  but  look 
after  her  little  sister.  There  was  no  use  in  lock 
ing  her  up.  She  always  got  away  and  was  found 
among  the  hills.  So  they  brought  her  here." 

Her  fears  forgotten  in  sympathy,  Lilian  rose 
and  approached  the  cell.  As  the  girl  perceived 
her  she  sprang  forward,  clasping  her  hands. 

"  Oh   Signora,  have  you  seen  her ;  have  you 


LILIAN.  257 

seen  my  little  Beppa  ?  "  And,  with  a  look  of 
anguished  entreaty,  she  fixed  her  large,  imploring 
eyes  on  Lilian. 

Lilian's  throat  swelled.  She  shook  her  head 
and  turned  away. 

"  Will  she  ever  recover?  "  she  asked  of  the  nun. 

"  When  little  Beppa  is  found,  Signora.  Never 
till  then.  But  will  you  not  look  at  the  other. 
She  will  not  mind  it.  She  takes  notice  of  noth- 
ing." 

Lilian  followed  the  nun  towards  another  door. 
Through  the  grate,  she  saw  against  the  light  from 
the  narrow  window  the  form  of  a  young  woman. 
She  sat  with  her  head  bent  down,  her  hands  fold 
ed  together. 

Lilian  gazed  compassionately  upon  the  attenu 
ated  outlines,  the  sad,  downcast  head. 

The  figure  slowly  raised  its  hands,  and  pressed 
them  to  its  forehead. 

The  loose  sleeves'  fell  back. 

Large  white  scars  were  on  the  arms. 

O 

Lilian  put  forth  both  hands  and  clutched  the 
iron  grating.  Conscious  only  of  one  universal 
horror,  she  bent  her  eyes  upon  the  figure. 

Slowly  it  turned  its  head  towards  her. 

She  saw  what  seemed  the  ghost  of  Mira. 

22* 


258  LILIAN. 

Lilian  neither  thought  nor  felt.  In  that  mo 
ment  the  link  between  her  soul  and  her  body 
seemed  to  snap  asunder. 

She  turned  to  the  nun.  She  heard  herself  say 
that  she  could  not  wait  for  her  party,  that  she 
must  return  at  once.  She  knew  that  she  was 
passing  along  the  corridors  and  through  the  halls, 
that  she  entered  the  carriage,  and  ordered  the  ser 
vants  to  drive  to  the  palazzo.  She  sat  rigid  and 
upright.  Her  perceptions  seemed  to  absorb  her 
whole  force.  The  sunlight  blazed  into  her  brain. 
The  various  noises  of  the  street  sounded  close 
upon  her  ear.  The  motion  of  the  carriage^'arred 
her  every  nerve. 

She  reached  her  home.  As  she  ascended  the 
staircase,  the  sense  of  all  that  was  began  to  come 
upon  her.  She  gained  her  apartments,  her  own 
room.  She  stood  in  the  middle  of  the  floor.  She 
looked  upward.  She  said  one  word. 

"  God.!' 

That  one  appeal ! 

Then  she  opened  her  desk.  She  took  out  her 
purse  and  her  letter  of  credit.  She  was  ready. 
All  that  remained  was  to  write  to  him.  She 
seated  herself.  She  wrote.  She  sealed  the  lines, 
directed  them,  laid  them  on  her  table. 


LILIAN.  259 

She  felt  cold.  She  shivered.  On  the  sofa  lay 
a  large  shawl,  her  grandmother's  parting  gift. 
She  wrapt  it  about  her. 

As  if  borne  up,  not  touching  the  ground,  she 
passed  through  the  vacant  rooms,  down  the  stair 
case,  into  the  street.  She  drew  her  veil  closely 
around  her,  and  walked  rapidly  on  until  she  met 
an  empty  vettura.  She  signed  to  the  driver.  He 
stopped.  She  entered  the  carriage. 

"  Dove,  Signora  ?  " 

"  To  the  steamboat  for  Civita  Vecchia." 

She  was  driven  to  the  quay.  She  reached  the 
vessel.  A  few  moments  of  strange  voices  and 
strange  faces,  and  she  found  herself  alone  in  a 
state-room. 

She  did  not  think.  She  could  not  think.  One 
idea  rose  above  all  others.  "  When  would  the 
vessel  leave  ?  "  On  that  one  idea  her  mind  hung, 
it  pressed. 

The  sunlight  streamed  in  through  the  small 
window  and  lay  in  a  square,  bright  patch  before 
her.  It  seemed  a  living  thing  looking  at  her. 
"  When  would  the  vessel  leave  ?  " 

At  length  a  prolonged  hissing,  as  of  a  mighty 
serpent,  came  through  the  window.  The  vessel 
shook,  the  wheels  revolved,  slowly  at  first,  then 


260  LILIAN. 

faster,  faster.  She  was  going.  It  was  bearing 
her  away.  She  started  to  her  feet.  The  agony 
was  coming. 

"  God,  God,  help  me,  God,  to  hear  it." 
As  one  who  in  the  struggle  of  death  grasps  the 
holy  cross,  so  Lilian  clung  to  the  Presence  above 
her.  She  dared  not  remember.  She  dared  not 
look  forward.  She  sat  through  the  long  night, 
half  benumbed,  yet  quivering  each  instant  as 
from  a  dagger's  stroke,  silently,  ceaselessly  re 
peating,  "  Help  me,  God,  to  bear  it." 


LXI. 

THE  long  night  passed.  The  gray  dawn  crept 
noiselessly  into  the  state-room,  touching  with  cold 
fingers  every  projecting  point,  gliding  among  the 
shadows,  silently  warning  them  away.  They 
paled,  they  disappeared.  The  first  day  of  Lilian's 
widowhood  —  worse  than  widowhood  —  had  be 
gun. 

The  jerking  pulsation  of  the  steamboat  ceased. 
Harsh,  rattling  sounds,  mixed  with  the  trampling 
of  feet,  came  from  above.  The  vessel  had  reached 
the  port. 

Lilian  rose.     Her  knees  bent  under  her.     Hold- 


LILIAN.  261 

ing  by  the  wood-work,  she  gained  the  door,  opened 
it,  and  ascended  the  staircase. 

The  deck  was  crowded.  There  was  hurrying 
to  and  fro,  the  sound  of  many  voices,  and  the 
glaring  of  the  sun.  Everything  looked  strange 
and  dislocated  to  her.  The  voices  seemed  at  an 
unnatural  pitch  ;  the  faces  wore  exaggerated  ex 
pressions.  She  felt  like  a  bodiless  phantom,  with 
out  any  common  tie  of  humanity  connecting  her 
with  those  around.  Every  motion  she  made, 
every  word  she  uttered,  was  by  a  separate  effort 
of  volition,  as  she  passed  through  the  necessary 
formalities,  —  was  rowed  to  the  shore,  and  placed 
herself  in  a  vettura. 

Again  across  the  bleak  waste  of  the  Campagna. 
Again  towards  the  Silent  City,  the  City  of  the 
Departed,  —  meet  shelter  for  her  whose  song  of 
thanksgiving  was  silenced,  the  life  of  whose  life 
lay  dead. 

The  long  bright  day  unrolled  its  cheerless 
pageant  of  sunny  skies  and  snowy  clouds  above 
her.  Lilian  looked  with  an  incredulous  eye 
around.  Was  it  indeed  the  same  world  on  which 
yesterday's  sun  had  risen  ?  What  was  she  yes 
terday  ?  Where,  what  was  she  now  ? 

Memories    bitterer    than    death    pursued   her. 


262  LILIAN. 

Rushes  of  uncontrollable  thought  swept  over  her. 
The  past  floated  like  a  shrouded  phantom  before 
her.  It  was  leading  her  back  to  the  Silent  City, 
to  the  convent,  still,  deathlike,  the  home  of  Sor 
row,  the  chosen  dwelling  of  Grief,  her  fittest 
refuge  now. 

The  day  wore  on.  The  unnatural  tension  of 
Lilian's  brain  began  to  yield  to  exhaustion.  Ob 
jects  seemed  slipping  from  the  grasp  of  her  mind. 
Her  thoughts  receded  indefinitely  before  her.  She 
sought  in  vain  to  pursue  them,  to  hold  them. 
They  faded  from  her,  and  lost  themselves  in  mist. 
Gradually  all  her  perceptions  merged  themselves 
in  the  sense  of  motion.  Rocked  by  the  swaying 
of  the  carriage,  Lilian  slept. 

Uprooted  from  the  pleasant  garden  of  her  life, 
torn  from  the  loving  shelter  of  her  home,  adrift 
on  the  cold  waves,  she  was  borne  unconscious  on 
towards  the  unknown  future,  veiled  in  impene 
trable  shadow,  mantled  with  blackest  night. 

Lilian  was  aroused  by  the  carriage-door  being 
thrown  open. 

"  Siamo  arrivati,  Signora.  Eccoci  alia  locan- 
da,"  said  the  rough,  good-natured  voice  of  the 
vetturino. 


LILIAN.  263 

A  servant  of  the  hotel  came  forward.  Lilian 
asked  if  she  could  have  rooms. 

"  I  don't  know  if  there  are  any  rooms  free, 
Signora,"  said  the  man,  scanning  her  with  an  in 
quisitive  eye.  "  I  will  ask  the  padrona." 

He  disappeared  within,  and  presently  returned, 
following  a  large,  portly  woman,  with  cold,  black 
eyes,  and  harshly-marked  features. 

"  I  am  sorry,  Madama,"  she  began,  as  she  ad 
vanced  to  the  carriage -door.  She  checked  her 
self,  as  her  glance  fell  upon  the  costly  folds  of 
Eastern  fabric,  which  enveloped  the  stranger. 
"  Quanto  £  bestia  quel  domestico !  "  she  muttered 
to  herself;  and,  with  fluent  greeting,  she  begged 
Lilian  to  descend. 

"  Has  the  Signora  any  orders  ?  "  she  asked,  as 
she  ushered  Lilian  into  a  large,  well-furnished, 
desolate-looking  room. 

"  Do  you  know  Dr.  Albertazzi's  address  ?  " 

"  Certainly,  Signora ;  he  is  here  just  beside  us, 
in  the  next  piazza." 

"  I  wish  him  to  come  this  evening,  or  to-morrow 
morning  as  early  as  possible." 

The  hostess  retired. 

The  tall  candles  on  the  mantel-piece  shed  an 
uncertain  light  through  the  room.  The  ticking 


264  LILIAN. 

of  the  clock  had  a  solemn,  warning  sound.  Noth 
ing  else  broke  the  silence.  Life  seemed  to  stand 
still,  listening  to  the  passing  of  time. 

A  knock  came  at  the  door.  It  opened,  and  the 
young  daughter  of  the  hostess  entered. 

"  II  Signor  dottore  is  not  at  home,  Signora. 
The  servant  waited  long  for  his  return,  but  when 
it  grew  so  late,  he  left  the  message  for  to-morrow 
morning." 

Lilian  bowed  her  head. 

The  weaiy,  woe-stamped  face,  the  hopeless 
look  in  the  stranger's  eyes  as  she  turned  them 
upon  the  girl,  sank  into  her  heart.  With  the  im 
pulsive  sympathy  of  her  race,  she  recognized  a 
great  grief;  with  feminine  tact,  she  spoke. 

"The  Signora  is  fatigued,  —  but  the  Signora 
has  forgotten  that  she  has  eaten  nothing.  If  the 
Signora  will  allow  me  to  serve  her  myself."  And 
without  awaiting  an  answer,  she  left  the  room. 

For  more  than  twenty-four  hours,  Lilian  had 
not  tasted  food.  She  would  gladly  have  never 
eaten  again.  There  was  something  inexpressibly 
repugnant  in  the  idea  of  again  returning  to  the 
daily  routine  of  life,  after  the  shock,  the  wrench 
from  all  that  made  life  clear  to  her.  Why  should 


LILIAN.  265 

she  eat  ?  Why  should  she  seek  to  live  ?  It  were 
better  to  die  and  be  at  rest,  —  gently  to  glide 
down  the  last  descent,  to  find  forgetfulness  and 
sleep  below. 

A  sense  of  faintness  came  over  her.  She  rose 
and  threw  back  the  window.  Before  her  lay  the 
broad,  overshadowed  piazza.  The  soft  rays  of 
the  rising  moon  rested  upon  the  summit  of  the 
great  Egyptian  obelisk,  which  stood  pointing  from 
amid  the  darkness  below,  its  unwearied  finger  to 
Heaven.  Beneath,  from  the  gloom  which  wrapt 
its  base,  came  the  restless  flow  of  unseen  foun 
tains,  dashing  impatiently,  foaming  unceasingly, 
like  the  desires  of  men  chafing  against  the  boun 
daries  of  fate.  And  still  unmoved,  unwavering, 
steady  amid  the  strife,  the  ancient  stone  fulfilled 
its  mandate,  ever  pointing  upward,  bearing  mute 
witness  to  the  Power  above. 

As  Lilian  gazed,  the  teaching  of  the  silent  mon 
ument  came  to  her  in  deep,  soundless  tones,  nerv 
ing  her  once  more  to  raise  the  burden  of  her  life. 

"  Patience,  oh  mourners.  Yet  a  little  while, 
and  ye  shall  cease  to  be.  Your  eyes  shall  weep 
no  more,  your  hearts  no  longer  ache.  Faith ! 
ye  afflicted.  At  the  end  ye  shall  read  the  be 
ginning.  What  is  hidden  shall  be  revealed,  what 

23 


266  LILIAN. 

is  dark,  made  clear.     Look  upward.     Faint  not. 
He  to  whom  I  point,  He  careth  for  you." 


LXII. 

"  IL  Signer  dottore  Albertazzi." 

A  shiver  ran  over  Lilian  at  the  name  of  the 
frequent,  ever-welcome  guest  of  the  winter  be 
fore.  It  passed  and  left  her  marble  still.  She 
rose  to  meet  him. 

"  Mrs.  Clinton,  what  has  happened  ?  "  he  ex 
claimed  abruptly,  as  his  eye  flashed  over  her  rigid 
face,  her  unyielding  form. 

In  tones  as  rigid  as  her  features  Lilian  spoke. 

"  His  wife  is  not  dead.  She  is  in  Naples.  I 
wish  to  live  in  a  convent.  Will  you  help  me  ?  " 

A  dark  glow  overspread  the  swarthy  counte 
nance  of  the  Italian. 

"But  this  is  too  dreadful !  "  burst  from  him. 

Lilian's  face  did  not  alter.  No  self-pity  soft 
ened  her  eyes,  dilated  as  by  some  ever-present 
memory  of  horror.  Her  whole  frame  was  strained 
to  endure. 

Dr.  Albertazzi  walked  up  and  down  the  room. 
He  returned  and  sat  down  near  the  still,  pale 
form. 


LILIAN.  267 

"  I  have  no  words.  Let  me  serve  you  if  I 
can." 

Lilian  did  not  speak. 

"  You  have  no  near  relations  ?  " 

"None." 

"  You  are  here  alone  ?  " 

She  bowed  her  head.  Each  moment  she  grew 
more  rigid.  She  seemed  stiffening  into  stone. 
The  Italian  rose. 

"  I  shall  soon  return.  I  go  to  make  the  ar 
rangements  you  desire." 

Lilian  silently  placed  in  his  hand  her  letter  of 
credit. 

He  looked  a  moment  on  the  marble  face.  His 
chest  tightened.  He  could  not  speak.  What 
speech  could  reach  the  unapproachable  isolation 
of  such  a  sorrow. 

"  You  will  write,"  she  hardly  articulated. 

He  bowed  reverently  and  went  out,  softly  clos 
ing  the  door  behind  him.  The  daughter  of  the 
hostess  met  him. 

"  Ah  Signore  dottore,  what  is  it  ?  What  has 
happened  to  the  lady  ?  " 

"  A  great  calamity,  figlia  mia." 

"  May  I  slip  into  the  room  to  sit  in  the  corner 
and  wait  on  her  ?  " 

"  No.     She  had  better  be  alone." 


268  LILIAN. 

LIII. 

THE  sun  had  set  ere  the  Italian  returned.  "  I 
have  been  gone  a  long  time.  There  was  much 
to  be  done  before  I  could  obtain  the  permissions 
I  desired  for  you.  You  are  received  as  an  in 
mate,  but  exempted  from  obedience  to  the  con 
vent  rules,  and  you  are  allowed  to  wear  the  nun's 
habit." 

Lilian  rose. 

"  Can  I  go  now  ?  " 

"  The  carriage  is  waiting." 

He  gave  her  his  arm  and  conducted  her  tow 
ards  the  staircase.  The  daughter  of  the  hostess 
met  them.  She  caught  Lilian's  hand,  raised  it 
to  her  lips  and  burst  into  tears. 

Lilian  turned  an  impassive  eye  upon  the  girl. 
A  vague  surprise  passed  through  her  thoughts. 
She  could  not  weep  for  herself.  Why  should 
others  weep  for  her  ? 

In  the  gathering  twilight,  past  the  palaces,  the 
fountains,  the  churches,  the  monuments,  through 
the  dark-winding  streets,  the  dim,  wide  piazzas, 
Lilian  was  driven.  They  entered  the  ruins.  Past 
temples  once  glad  with  song  of  sacrifice  and  joy 
ful  hymns,  now  shattered  and  ruined;  arches 


LILIAN.  269 

raised  by  jubilant  conquerors  across  the  crowded 
streets  of  the  imperial  city,  now  spanning  solitary 
scarce-trodden  ways ;  ruins  of  towering  piles,  ma 
jestic  palaces,  their  stately  halls  now  open  to  the 
wind,  their  waiting  crowds,  their  thousand  slaves, 
all  gone,  all  vanished  into  nothingness  ;  —  past  an 
cient  Rome  they  held  their  way  towards  a  soli 
tary,  time-worn  pile,  rising  high  above  its  storied 
terraces  of  green. 

They  passed  up  the  grass-grown  steps,  and  en 
tered  the  dark  shadow  cast  by  the  convent  wall. 
Lilian's  guide  stopped  at  a  low  door.  He  knock 
ed  ;  it  opened,  and  a  veiled  figure,  holding  a 
lamp,  appeared  standing  in  the  ghostly  moonlight 
of  the  inner  court. 

"  I  must  not  enter,"  said  the  Italian.  "  Fare 
well." 

The  door  closed  upon  Lilian.  She  stood  alone 
with  the  black- veiled  nun  in  the  stone-paved  court ; 
before  her  the  heavy  walls  and  small  grated  win 
dows  of  the  convent.  No  sound  broke  the  death 
like  silence,  save  the  hooting  of  an  owl  from  the 
neighboring  ruins. 

She  followed  the  black,  stoled  figure,  as  it  enter 
ed  the  building,  and  passed  along  a  narrow  passage, 
up  a  winding  staircase  of  stone,  to  an  oaken  door. 

23* 


270  LILIAN. 

The  nun  knocked,  and  entered  alone.  She  re 
turned,  and  bade  Lilian  advance. 

She  found  herself  in  a  small  but  lofty  room. 
The  iron  lamp  that  hung  from  the  ceiling  shed 
its  light  upon  a  tall,  spare  figure,  with  sunken 
cheeks  and  deep,  black  eyes,  whose  fire  seemed 
to  have  been  long  ago  quenched  in  tears.  ' 

"  It  is  the  abbess,  —  kneel,"  whispered  her  con 
ductress  ;  and  Lilian  mechanically  obeyed. 

"  Be  blessed,  my  daughter,  and  now  arise,"  said 
a  calmly  commanding  voice. 

Lilian  arose.  The  nun  had  disappeared.  Sho 
was  alone  with  the  abbess,  the  tortured  Christ 
looking  down  on  her  from  the  great  ebony  crucifix. 

"  Daughter,  sorely  wounded  you  have  come  to 
the  abode  of  peace.  May  God's  comfort  breathe 
upon  you  ;  may  Christ's  healing  descend  upon  you ; 
may  the  Holy  Mother's  pity  console  you.  Go  in 
peace,  my  daughter.  Watch  and  pray,  and  wait." 

Like  snowflakes  on  the  dark  wintry  waters,  so 
softly  fell  the  clear,  pure  tones  on  Lilian's  soul. 
The  iron  band  that  had  been  closing  around  her 
seemed  to  relax  its  clasp.  The  voice  unlocked 
the  frozen  fountains  of  her  heart.  Tears  rose  to 
her  dark,  dilated  eyes,  but  sank  to  their  bed  again. 

The  abbess  rang  a  small  bell  on  a  table  beside 


LILIAN.  271 

her.  The  nun  again  appeared.  Lilian  followed, 
walking  as  in  a  dream,  the  gliding  figure  and  the 
glimmering  lamp,  through  hushed  corridors  and 
moonlit  galleries,  until  they  paused  at  a  narrow 
door.  The  nun  opened  it.  The  moonlight 
streamed  within,  marking  the  lines  of  the  barred 
window  on  the  stone  floor,  showing  the  low  pal 
let,  the  wooden  chair  and  table,  which  were  the 
only  furniture  of  the  cell.  On  the  bed  lay  the 
black  robes  of  a  nun. 

"  Good-night,  Signora." 

The  door  closed,  the  retreating  footsteps  died 
along  the  corridor,  and  Lilian  was  left  alone. 

She  turned  an  affrighted  glance  around  the  nar 
row  cell.  She  stretched  out  her  arms  with  sudden 
motion. 

"  Harvey !  " 

As  the  despairing  cry  reechoed  from  the  cold 
walls,  Lilian  sank,  sank  she  knew  not  whither. 

The  shadow  of  the  grated  window  moved  slowly 
over  the  prostrate  figure,  the  deathlike  face.  Life 
held  aloof,  as  loath  to  lay  again  its  heavy  burden 
on  that  much-tried  heart;  till,  through  the  night 
and  stillness,  mournfully  pealing,  came  the  sound 
of  the  convent -bell.  Its  vibrations  throbbed 
through  the  darkened  chambers  of  her  brain,  and 


272  LILIAN. 

summoned  her  to  life.  Shuddering,  she  arose,  and 
laid  herself  on  the  low  pallet. 

The  sound  of  opening  doors,  the  sweeping  of 
garments,  the  measured  tread  of  feet,  mingled  with 
the  close  resounding  summons.  They  ceased,  and 
all  was  still,  when,  softly  swelling  through  the 
silence,  came  the  chanted  prayer. 

"  God,  great  Father,  hear  us !  From  the  strife 
of  life,  from  the  beating  of  the  tempest,  from  the 
tossing  of  the  waves,  hither  have  we  fled.  Send 
down  Thy  blessing  on  us  !  Grant  us  Thy  peace  ! 

"  Christ,  Holy  One,  oh,  hear  us  I  Thou  who 
didst  bear  our  life,  Thou  who  didst  weep  for  us, 
Thou  who  didst  die  for  us,  send  down  Thy  bless 
ing  on  us  !  Grant  us  Thy  peace  ! 

"  Virgin,  Spotless  Mother,  hear  us  !  Thou  who 
didst  stand  while  the  sword  pierced  through  thy 
soul,  whilst  in  his  agony  thy  dear  Son  did  hang 
upon  the  cross,  send  down  thy  blessing  on  us ! 
Grant  us  thy  peace !  " 

The  simple,  ancient  words,  the  chorussed  voices, 
the  pealing  of  the  organ,  in  earnest  invocation, 
breathed  through  the  midnight  air.  Over  the 
ruins  of  the  antique  world  without,  over  the  sad 
der  ruins  of  human  hopes  within,  they  sounded 
in  their  sweet  solemnity. 


LILIAN.  273 


God  seemed  nearer  to  Lilian. 
Surely  He  heard  that  prayer. 


LXIV. 

As  some  glad  stream  which  flows  rejoicing  on, 
between  its  velvet  banks  of  sunny  green,  reflect 
ing  fair  things  sweet  and  beautiful,  —  the  drooping 
boughs  of  overhanging  trees,  the  tender  hues  of 
slender-stemmed  flowers,  the  flush  of  morn,  the 
glory  of  the  eve,  the  far-off  splendor  of  the  mid 
night  stars,  —  and  sings,  sings  ever  of  its  happiness, 
—  then  sinks  at  once  into  deep,  dreadful  caves,  far 
from  the  sweet  sun  and  the  scented  air,  far  from 
the  rippling  joy  of  its  clear  course,  far  from  the 
song  of  birds,  the  breath  of  flowers,  and,  dumb 
with  grief,  glides  through  those  murky  halls,  be 
neath  whose  silent  vaults  no  life  is  found,  struck 
into  Death-Land  by  one  moment's  plunge,  void  of 
all  hope,  a  river  of  Despair,  —  so  Lilian's  life, 
wrenched  from  its  happy  course,  flowed  on  within 
the  silent  convent-walls.  Patient  and  still  and 
sad,  she  glided  through  the  shaded  corridors,  her 
dark  robes,  like  the  shadow  of  her  fate,  enfolding 
her  young  life  and  love  with  a  funereal  pall ;  or 
paced  the  worn  stones  of  the  cloister  walk,  where 


274  LILIAN. 

slender  shafts  of  carved  and  twisted  stone  upheld 
the  arches  of  the  light-hung  roof;  tracing  their 
shadows  on  the  graven  slabs,  that  told  the  name 
of  many  a  buried  nun,  life's  trouble  over,  resting 
in  her  grave.  And  Lilian  would  stand  with  folded 
hands,  and  read  the  scanty  record  of  their  lives, 
and  wonder  if  among  them  there  had  been  one, 
only  one,  as  wretched  as  herself. 

Or  she  would  wander  listlessly  amid  the  tangled 
paths  of  the  old  garden  waste,  and  sit  by  ruined 
fountains,  listening,  with  dreamirfg  ear,  the  faint, 
complaining  flow  of  waters  trickling  from  their 
shattered  vase,  and  winding  under  thickets  of  dim 
shade,  mournfully  murmuring  as  they  stole  away. 

She  would  stray  between  the  green  walls,  'neath 
the  arching  boughs  of  laurel  walks,  where  cease 
less  twilight  Teigned  ;  and  if  a  struggling  sunbeam 
wandered  through,  it  gleamed  up  starlike  from  the 
path  below.  Safe  from  all  harmful  wile  and  snare 
cf  man,  the  little  birds  sang  from  those  shadowy 
groves,  making  sweet  music  .all  the  livelong  day. 
The  nightingale,  unmindful  of  the  sun,  poured 
forth  in  those  sequestered  halls  her  notes,  sighing 
forth  softness  in  luxurious  chant.  Sweet  hypo 
crite,  feigning  an  unfelt  woe  so  fair,  that  tears 
would  gush  from  the  full  heart  of  the  sad  human 


LILIAN.  275 

listener,  the  while  the  little  songstress  plained  at 
joyful  ease. 

Broad  lawns  and  sloping  banks  and  terraced 
sweeps  would  woo  her  slow  and  half-unconscious 
step ;  and  spreading  shade  of  solemn  whispering 
oak,  and  moonlight  olive,  would  invite  to  rest. 
Red  poppies  flamed  amid  the  soft,  green  grass, 
mixed  with  .large  snowy  bells  and  purple  sprays, 
and  untrained  roses  waved  their  fragrant  blooms, 
and  flung  out  sweetness  on  the  lonely  air.  No 
hand  reproved  the  wild  luxuriance,  no  careful 
watch  restrained  their  wayward  will ;  flowers 
sprang  daring  from  the  gravelled  paths,  and 
climbed  in  sport  around  the  ancient  trees.  The 
ivy  wound  about  blank  pedestals,  and  twined 
around  the  gray-flecked  marble  forms,  the  only 
guardians  of  that  solitude,  binding  their  limbs  in 
trembling  verdant  chains. 

Upon  an  open  sweep  a  dial  lay,  fringed  by  tall 
grasses  and  by  feathery  ferns,  spotted  by  white 
and  stained  with  yellow  moss.  No  guiding  shadow 
touched  its  hours  with  life ;  it  lay  and  looked  up 
blankly  at  the  sun,  —  a  vacant,  useless,  and  for 
gotten  stone,  its  duties  past,  its  very  memory  gone. 
It  had  a  mournful  charm  for  Lilian.  Oft  would 
she  come  and  kneel  beside  it  there,  and  think  how 


276  LILIAN. 

like  her  life  that  dial  was.  She  grew  to  love  its 
cold,  unconscious  face.  She  almost  felt  that  it 
could  feel  for  her. 

When  the  vibrating  summons  of  the  bell  rang 
through  the  cloisters,  floating  forth  across  the 
peaceful  garden  wilderness  below,  to  lose  itself 
among  the  ruined  piles,  and  o'er  the  silent,  sunny 
plain  beyond,  then  Lilian  would  join  the  sister 
hood,  and  kneel  beside  them  in  their  place  of 
prayer,  and  lift  with  theirs  her  sweet,  young 
voice  to  Heaven,  praying  for  help  to  bear  her 
Father's  will  with  gentle  patience  and  unmurmur 
ing  thought,  for  mercy  to  be  strengthened  to  en 
dure,  and  courage  to  look  forward  to  the  end,  — 
praying  for  him  she  never  more  might  see, --for 
him,  the  husband  of  one  happy  year,  loved  even 
more  in  that  slow  agony  than  in  the  gladness  of 
their  joyous  days,  —  praying  for  her,  the  heavily- 
smitten  one,  the  tender,  loving  sister  of  her  youth, 
Mira,  the  guiltless  cause  of  so  much  woe,  the 
wife  sore  wounded  with  unconscious  wrong.  The 
dim  light  fell  athwart  the  painted  panes  in  glow 
ing  harmonies  of  fervent  tones,  and  rested  on  the 
rows  of  black-veiled  forms,  their  hands  clasped  sup 
pliant  to  the  Christ,  who  smiled  in  infant  sweetness 
from  the  altar-piece ;  and,  leaning  from  his  gentle 


LILIAN.  277 

mother's  arms,  held  in  his  dimpled  hand,  towards 
those  ranks  of  kneeling  worshippers,  the  mystic 
branch  of  olive,  —  pledge  of  peace  serene,  assured, 
peace  that  no  cruel  hand  can  wrench  away,  — 
the  peace  of  God,  that  passeth  understanding. 

So,  pacing  o'er  the  monumental  stones,  the 
graven  pavement  of  the  cloister  aisles;  gliding 
amid  the  verdurous,  starry  shade,  sitting  beside  the 
sadly-trickling  founts,  resting  beneath  the  solemn, 
spreading  trees,  kneeling  beside  the  quiet  sister 
hood,  her  fair  face  gleaming  from  her  sable  robes, 
like  a  white  lily  shining  from  a  bier,  her  long,  still 
days  passed  on. 

LXY. 

LILIAN'S  sorrow  was  too  overwhelming  to  allow 
of  passionate  outbreak.  Its  immensity  had  crushed 
out  of  her  will  the  impulse  to  resist.  She  could 
not  even  wish  relief,  for  life,  —  sacred,  beloved 
life,  —  stood  between  her  and  the  ceasing  of  her 
wretchedness.  God's  hand  was  laid  upon  her,  and 
by  its  wreight  she  knew  that  it  was  God's.  The 
very  excess  of  her  misery  brought  one  consolation 
with  it.  She  felt  the  more  His  love.  It  was  her 
only  refuge.  It  was  all  she  had.  All  else  had 
failed  her.  God  would  never  fail  her.  In  the 

24 


278  LILIAN. 

darkness  and  silence  of  the  night,  she  would  lift 
up  her  thoughts  from  out  the  mournful  solitude, 
and  pray,  and  feel  her  prayer  raise  her  to  the 
Eternal  Arms ;  and  soothed,  consoled,  and  com 
forted,  she  would  rest  in  the  pitying  bosom  of  her 
Father,  and  sink  to  sleep. 

As  time  wore  on,  she  learned  to  place  the  idea 
of  God  as  -a  shield  between  her  and  her  memories. 
It  was  her  duty  to  abjure  remembrance.  Her 
happiness,  innocent  in  itself,  recalled  with  long 
ing,  would  taint  her  soul  with  sin.  Not  only  the 
future,  not  only  the  present,  God  demanded  of  her 
the  past.  And  she  sealed  solemnly  the  memory 
of  her  wedded  love,  and  offered  it  with  aching 
obedience.  And  God  received  the  sacrifice.  He 
placed  it  among  His  precious  things.  He  looked 
upon  her,  and  blessed  her  with  His  grace.  He 
sent  down  the  sweetness  of  His  spirit,  and  breathed 
upon  her  soul.  She  was  no  more  alone.  She 
walked  with  God.  His  hand  gently  upheld  her 
daily  steps,  and  gave  to  her  lips  draughts  of  those 
living  waters  of  which  whoever  drinks  shall  thirst 
no  more. 

LXVI. 

LILIAN  stood  at  the  grated  window  of  her  cell, 
and  looked  down  on  the  grassy  quadrangle  below, 


LILIAN.  279 

closed  in  by  the  graceful  arches  of  the  shaded 
cloisters.  From  time  to  time,  a  little  bird  would 
dart  across  the  open  space,  and  the  yellow  wall 
flowers  nod-  to  each  other.  Nothing  else  moved. 

A  joyful  bark,  a  burst  of  girlish  laughter, 
sounded  along  the  cloister-wall,  startling  the  silent 
echoes  into  jocund  life.  Into  the  checkered  sun 
light  sprang  the  figure  of  a  girl,  chased  by  a  little 
dog.  Her  robe  of  purple  silk,  her  golden  orna 
ments,  flashed  into  alternate  brightness,  and  sank 
into  intervening  shadow,  as  she  danced  over  the 
worn  tombstones  and  frolicked  around  the  sculp 
tured  shafts,  hiding,  reappearing,  pursuing,  and 
fleeing,  while  her  ever -returning  laughter  made 
glad  music  on  the  wondering  air. 

Lilian  gazed  in  pleased  surprise  on  the  joyous 
apparition,  as  it  flitted  in  its  happy  merriment 
around  the  solemn  shades,  making  their  twilight 
radiant  with  the  gladness  of  its  youth. 

At  length,  as  if  weary  of  sport,  the  girl  called 
to  the  little  dog,  took  it  in  her  arms,  and  seated 
herself  on  the  edge  of  the  cloister,  between  the 
shafts  of  stone.  She  turned  her  face  upwards. 
Her  eye  rested  upon  Lilian,  standing,  with  folded 
hands,  at  the  grated  window.  She  sprang  to  her 
feet,  dropping  the  astonished  dog,  gazed  up  for  a 


280  LILIAN. 

moment,  then,  followed  by  her  indignantly  bark 
ing  little  companion,  bounded  into  the  cloister, 
and  disappeared. 

Springing  footsteps  echoed  along  the  gallery, 
mingled  with  the  hurried  pattering  of  paws.  A 
knock  sounded  at  the  door. 

"  Entrate." 

It  opened,  and  the  apparition  of  the  cloisters 
below  darted  within,  a  girl  of  childish  features, 
but  rounded  figure,  sparkling,  glittering,,  smiling, 
fresh,  —  the  very  counterpart  of  joyous  Spring. 

Lilian  stood  in  silent  astonishment. 

"  You  are  the  English  sister,  are  you  not  ?  " 
said  the  girl. 

"  They  call  me  so." 

"  I  knew  you  were,  for  they  said  she  was  young 
and  beautiful.  Keep  still,  Tomm ;  what  are  you 
about  ?  " 

The  dog,  a  purple  Isle  of  Skye  terrier,  was 
standing  on  its  hind  legs,  and  impatiently  claim 
ing  Lilian's  attention.  She  stooped  and  patted 
its  head.  It  sniffed,  and  licked  her  hand.  Tears 
started  to  Lilian's  eyes.  It  was  the  first  caress 
she  had  received  for  many  months".  She  looked 
gratefully  at  the  dumb  creature  with  its  large, 
intelligent  eyes.  They  recalled  to  her  the  lov- 


LILIAN.  281 

ing  gaze  of  Great  Heart,  —  Great  Heart  resting 
in  dreamless  slumber  under  the  great  tree  below 
her  little  garden  in  that  far-off  land. 

"  Do  come  down  into  the  garden  with  me," 
said  the  girl  coaxingly.  "  I  have  been  here  two 
hours,  and'  I  am  so  lonely  already  that  I  don't 
know  what  to  do  with  myself.  I  can't  play  with 
Tomm  all  day  long,  though  he  is  a  darling,"  and 
she  caught  up  the  terrier  and  printed  a  strenuous 
kiss  upon  his  mop-like  head.  "  Will  you  come?  " 

Lilian  turned  silently  towards  the  door.  She 
had  so  seldom  spoken  of  late  that  she  expressed 
her  assent  by  gesture  rather  than  by  words. 

Along  the  dark  corridor  with  its  hundred 
doors,  down  the  winding  staircase,  through  the 
shaded  cloisters,  Lilian  followed  the  flitting  foot 
steps  of  her  companion,  who  chatted  the  while  gayly 
with  the  little  dog,  ever  and  anon  looking  back  to 
assure  herself  of  the  English  sister's  presence. 

As  they  entered  the  garden,  the  girl  clapped  her 
hands  together  and  bounded  forward  with  her  dog. 
Lilian  stood  and  watched  the  gracefully  circling 
figure,  listening  to  the  gay  laughter  as  one  lis 
tens  to  a  foreign  language,  sweet  to  the  ear,  but 
incomprehensible  to  the  sense.  Returning  as 
quickly  as  she  had  sped  away,  the  girl  took  Lil- 

24 


282  LILIAN. 

ian's  hand,  drew  her  to  a  shady  bank,  and  cast 
herself  at  her  feet,  looking  up  into  her  face. 

"  How  beautiful  you  are  !  You  are  as  beau 
tiful  as  the  Beatrice  that  hangs  in  my  horrid  old 
uncle's  palace.  And  you  look  something  like  her, 
only  not  so  despairing.  Did  you  ever  see  that 
picture  ?  " 

Lilian  bowed  her  head.  She  had  seen  it  many 
times  in  that  loved  companionship,  —  and  now  — 

"  Is  it  possible  that  you  are  cold  ?  How  can 
any  one  shiver  in  this  sun !  Won't  you  run  a 
little  with  Tomm  and  warm  yourself?  No?  " 

The  sunlight  that  fell  in  golden  streams  through 
the  dividing  brandies  of  the  great  tree  above, 
struck  on  Lilian's  face  and  showed  the  sharp  con 
traction  of  pain. 

"  I  hope  I  haven't  said  anything  to  trouble 
you,"  said  the  girl  anxiously.  "  My  aunt  would 
be  much  displeased  if  I  did.  She  told  me  that  I 
might  ask  you  to  come  into  the  garden  with  me. 
I  am  glad  you  are  here.  It  will  be  so  much  pleas- 
anter." 

"  Surely  you  are  not  going  to  take  the  veil  ?  " 
said  Lilian. 

"  Oh  no.  I  am  making  my  retreat  for  the 
month  before  I  am  married,  as  all  the  women  of 


LILIAN.  283 

my  family  do.  And  besides,  my  aunt  won't  receive 
any  one  who  has  not  a  true  vocation.  Have  you 
not  seen  how  different  the  sisters  here  are  from 
those  in  other  convents  ?  " 

"  I  know  nothing  of  other  convents,"  replied 
Lilian. 

"  They  are  not  nice  places  at  all.  The  nuns 
are  made  to  take  the  veil  against  their  will  more 
than  half  the  time,  and  they  are  so  stupid  and  so 
greedy,  it's  quite  shocking.  And  they  are  asleep 
almost  all  the  time  that  they  are  at  prayers,  and 
they  are  always  spying  and  telling  tales  about 
each  other.  When  we  were  at  Florence  last 
year,  mamma  fell  ill  and  they  sent  me  to  a  con 
vent  to  get  me  out  of  the  way.  I  was  quite  dis 
gusted  with  every  one  there.  This  is  very  dif 
ferent,  but  I  can't  say  that  I  like  even  this.  I 
come  once  a  year  for  a  month,  and  I  find  it  a 
great  seccatura,  though  I  love  my  aunt  dearly." 

"  The  abbess  ?  "  inquired  Lilian. 

"  Yes.  I  love  her  all  the  more  because  she  has 
had  so  much  to  suffer.  Do  you  know  about  her  ?  " 

Lilian  shook  her  head. 

"  She  was  the  eldest  daughter.  There  were 
two  brothers  and  two  sisters.  The  family  was 
not  rich,  and  the  parents  had  decided  that  the 


284  LILIAN. 

daughters  should  go  into  a  convent,  so  that  the 
sons  might  have  everything  for  themselves.  My 
aunt  was  very  beautiful  and  very  gay,  and  cheer 
ful.  She  never  wanted  to  go  into  a  convent,  and 
at  length  she  fell  in  love  with  a  young  man,  a 
friend  of  her  brother's,  and  then  of  course  she 
was  perfectly  miserable  at  the  idea  of  being  made 
a  nun.  The  young  man  told  her  parents  that  he 
would  marry  her  without  any  dowry,  but  they 
said  that  such  a  thing  had  never  happened  in  the 
family  as  a  daughter's  being  married  without  a 
dowry,  and  that  it  could  not  be.  She  wept  and 
prayed,  but  they  were  resolved  that  she  should 
go  into  a  convent.  When  she  saw  that  she  could 
not  prevail  on  them,  she  ran  away  with  her  lover. 
Nobody  knows  much  about  that  part.  The  only 
thing  I  could  ever  make  out  was  that  they  were 
pursued  and  overtaken,  and  that  she  was  carried 
at  once  to  the  convent, — this  convent,  —  and  that 
the  eldest  brother  fought  a  duel  with  the  lover  and 
killed  him.  When  she  knew  that  her  lover  was 
dead,  for  six  months  she  never  spoke  a  word.  She 
fasted  and  prayed  till  all  her  beauty  was  gone,  and 
she  did  such  dreadful  penances  that  the  Cardinal 
had  to  interfere  and  forbid  them.  And  when  the 
abbess  died,  she  was  made  abbess.  When  she  was 


LILIAN.  285 

abbess,  whenever  a  novice  presented  herself,  she 
had  a  private  conversation  with  her,  and  if  she 
found  that  the  girl  had  not  a  proper,  heavenly 
vocation,  she  refused  her,  and  sent  word  to  all 
the  other  convents  of  her  being  refused  for  want 
of  a  true  vocation,  and  then  none  of  the  other 
convents  dared  to  receive  her,  for  this  convent  is 
known  to  be  the  holiest  in  Rome. 

"  After  she  had  been  abbess  some  time,  her 
parents  wanted  to  make  my  mother,  who  was  a 
great  many  years  younger,  a  nun.  They  thought 
that  of  course  she  would  receive  her  own  sister. 
But  my  aunt  had  a  private  conversation  with  her, 
just  as  with  all  the  rest,  and  she  refused  her,  and 
sent  word  to  all  the  other  convents  of  her  being 
refused,  and  so  my  mother  was  married  as  she 
wanted  to  be.  You  can  imagine  how  she  loves 
my  aunt,  and  so  we  all  do.  None  of  us  would 
do  anything  that  she  disapproved  of  for  the 
world." 

"  Then  she  approves  your  marriage  ?  "  said  Lil 
ian,  interest  in  the  beautiful  child-woman  begin 
ning  to  stir  within  her. 

"  Oh,  yes.  She  never  kissed  me  so  tenderly  nor 
held  me  so  close  as  when  I  was  called  in  to  be 
told  about  it  after  it  was  decided  upon." 

"  And  you  love  him  ?  "  asked  Lilian, 


286  LILIAN. 

The  girl's  eyes  sparkled,  her  cheeks  flushed,  her 
lips  parted  with  a  quick  smile. 

"  Look,"  she  said.  And  as  if  the  sight  of  her 
lover's  face  were  the  most  conclusive  answer,  she 
drew  from  her  bosom  a  miniature,  and  placed  it 
in  Lilian's  hand. 

It  was  the  portrait  of  a  very  young  man,  with 
the  regular  features,  the  attenuated  and  receding 
chin,  and  the  carefully  curled  hair  which  distin 
guish  the  young  Italian  nobles  of  the  present  day. 
There  was  a  smile  of  courteous  affability  on  the 
lips,  the  eyes  were  soft,  the  bearing  high-bred. 

"  Is  he  not  beautiful  ?  "  said  the  girl,  as  her  eyes 
dwelt  lovingly  upon  the  portrait.  "  And  he  is  so 
amiable  !  His  mother  and  sisters  perfectly  idolize 
him.  They  write  me .  such  letters  about  him. 
They  say  that  I  shall  find  him  much  handsomer 
than  his  portrait." 

"  What,  have  you  never  seen  him  ?  "  asked 
Lilian,  startled  into  surprise. 

"  No.  But  I  have  his  picture  and  his  letters 
and  his  poetry,  and  that  is  quite  enough  to  love 
him  with.  We  shall  be  married  in  four  weeks, 
and  then  I  shall  see  him  all  the  time,  you  know." 
And  the  girl  lay  contentedly  back  on  the  grass 
and  contemplated  the  portrait  until  the  bell  sum 
moned  them  to  the  chapel-prayers. 


LILIAN.  287 

LXVII. 

LILIAN  sat  by  the  sun-dial.  She  sat  and  looked 
and  wondered.  From  the  fracture  which  crossed 
the  stone,  just  in  its  centre,  grew  a  pale  green 
stem.  Slender  and  straight  it  reared  itself,  cast 
ing  its  shadow  on  the  dial-plate.  She  could  read 
the  hours.  No  longer  useless,  hopeless,  blank,  — 
again  a  guide,  an  aid,  a  monitor,  noting  the  silent 
moments  as  they  passed,  telling  once  more  the 
preciousness  of  time,  —  the  broken  dial  woke  to 
life  again. 

Esmeralda  came  slowly  from  one  of  the  dark 
laurel  walks,  disregardful  of  Tomm,  who,  alter 
nately  walking  on  his  hind  legs,  and  giving  im 
patient  jumps,  with  doggish  blandishments,  vainly 
invited  her  to  a  race  over  the  glittering  grass,  and 
around  the  mossy  trees. 

She  seated  herself  beside  Lilian,  and  began  ab 
sently  to  trace  figures  with  her  finger  upon  the  dial. 
As  she  bent,  a  heavy  tear-drop  fell  upon  the  stone. 

"  Has  anything  grieved  you  ?  "  inquired  Lilian, 
solicitously. 

"  Yes.  I  have  done  something  very  unkind. 
I  don't  see  how  I  could  have  forgotten !  Last 


288  LILIAN. 

month,  I  heard  of  a  poor  woman  in  great  distress, 
and  I  promised  to  go  and  see  her,  and  the  very 
next  day  I  heard  that  I  was  to  he  married,  and 
I  was  so  glad  that  I  forgot  all  about  her,  and  I 
have  never  remembered  her  till  now.  And  here 
I  am,  shut  up,  and  all  the  family  have  gone  to 
Poggianone,  and  I  have  no  one  to  send.  I  feel 
so  sorry  and  so  ashamed  to  have  forgotten  the  suf 
fering  of  others,  because  I  was  so  happy  myself." 

"  To  have  forgotten  the  suffering  of  others,  be 
cause  I  was  so  unhappy  myself!"  So  an  inaudi 
ble  voice  repeated  the  words  to  Lilian's  inner  ear. 

She  turned  her  face  upward  to  the  sky.  A  new 
thought  rose  within  her,  and  glorified  the  sunlight. 
In  tones  of  remembered  sweetness,  the  morning 
song  of  the  birds  came  to  her  ear.  A  new,  a 
glad  perception  opened  before  her.  A  new  love 
extended  wide  its  world-embracino-  arms. 

O 

Under  the  Russian  snows,  there  grows  a  plant 
of  shining  foliage  and  of  crimson  fruit.  In  the 
cold  night  of  winter,  it  steals  up  from  the  frozen 
ground.  Under  the  white -spread  desolation  it 
ripens.  Its  leaves  are  polished  like  the  victor 
palm,  its  berries  ruby  as  with  the  earth's  heart 
blood.  Even  so  had  Lilian's  winter  of  grief  rip 
ened  celestial  fruit.  Suffering  had  brought  forth 


LILIAN.  289 

resignation.  From  resignation  was  springing  a  still 
nobler  birth.  In  harmonious  development,  gently, 
tenderly  was  she  led  up  the  steps  of  our  mortal 
ascent,  towards  the  perfection  of  an  universal  love. 

"  I  will  go,"   she  said. 

"  Will  you  ?  Can  you  ?  Oh,  yes,  I  remember 
my  aunt  said  that  you  were  exempted  from  the 
rules,  because  you  had  made  so  great  a  donation 
to  the  poor.  I  am  so  glad.  I  should  have  had  no 
peace.  I  will  run  to  my  aunt,  and  get  money." 

"  I  had  rather  you  went  to  my  cell,"  said  Lil 
ian.  "  You  will  find  my  purse  there." 

The  girl  returned.  Talking  gayly,  she  accom 
panied  Lilian  through  the  stone-paved  courtyard 
to  the  postern-gate. 

As  Lilian  descended  the  grass-grown  steps  of 
the  broad  terraces,  the  sense  of  isolation  pressed 
upon  her  overpoweringly.  She  felt  an  all  but 
irresistible  impulse  to  turn  back  and  seek  again 
the  shelter  of  the  convent  walls.  The  sunlight 
seemed  strange  arid  unfriendly.  The  unwalled 
space  distressed  her.  She  felt  bewildered.  She 
gazed  around.  Her  eye  rested  upon  the  Colos 
seum.  On  such  a  brilliant  day  as  this,  she  had 
first  beheld  it  with  him.  Before  her  rose  that 

25 


290  LILIAN. 

manly  presence  and  that  noble  face.  She  saw 
again  the  smile  of  those  serious  eyes ;  she  heard 
once  more  the  deep -toned  cadence  of  his  voice. 
Lilian  sank  on  the  lowest  step,  and  groaned  aloud. 
She  had  not  the  strength.  How  could  she  go  on 
into  that  outer  world,  so  filled  with  the  bitterness 
of  pain !  But  her  errand.  She  must  not  turn 
back.  She  would  not  look,  she  would  not  raise 
her  eyes,  but  her  errand  must  be  done. 

Along  the  solitary  road,  past  the  ruins,  through 
the  narrow  streets,  stilling  her  rushing  thoughts 
as  best  she  might,  steadily,  with  downcast  eyes, 
not  daring  to  look  up,  she  held  her  way  towards 
her  destination.  She  reached  the  house,  and  en 
tered  the  dark  portal.  Up  the  worn,  winding 
staircase,  she  passed,  she  gained  the  door  which 
Esmeralda  had  indicated.  She  knocked.  A  faint 
voice  bade  her  enter.  She  crossed  the  threshold. 
Want,  Woe,  and  Sickness  met  her  face  to  face. 

On  a  bed,  the  only  article  of  furniture  in  the 
room,  save  one  broken  chair,  lay  a  woman.  Her 
black  eyes  looked  out  with  a  haggard  stare  from 
her  colorless  face ;  her  lips  were  parted  with  the  un- 
breathing  look  of  utter  hopelessness.  By  her  side 
lay  a  child  of  about  five  years,  pale  and  shrunken. 

Lilian  glided  forward  to  the  bedside. 


" 


LILIAN.  291 

Tell  me,  my  poor  woman,  what  can  I  do  for 


you 

The  woman  looked  anxiously  in  her  face. 

"  I  am  hungry,"  she  whispered. 

Lilian's  heart  turne'd  sick. 

"  And  the  child  ?" 

"  He  has  the  fever.  When  I  ask  him,  he  says 
he  does  not  want  to  eat." 

Lilian  bent  over  the  child.  He  turned  his  little 
head  away. 

"  Poverello  mio,  caro  figliuolino,  are  you  hun- 


The  child  made  no  reply. 

"  Is  there  nothing,  nothing  that  you  want  ?  " 

He  turned  his  face  towards  her. 

"  Yes,  —  an  orange,  but  I  can't  have  it." 

"  You  shall  have  anything,  everything,"  she 
exclaimed  ;  and  hastily  descending  the  staircase, 
she  passed  into  the  street.  She  looked  hurriedly 
around.  She  heard  the  sound  of  singing  and 
dancing.  In  an  adjacent  courtyard,  she  saw, 
through  the  open  gate,  a  circle  of  bold-eyed  girls 
dancing  la  Forestiera,  while  some  young  men 
stood  by,  laughing  and  applauding.  A  witch-like 
old  woman  sat  on  the  stones  near  her,  leaning 
against  the  wall,  twirling  her  distaff,  and  mum- 


292  LILIAN. 

bling  to  herself.  Lilian  approached  her ;  but,  as 
the  hag  raised  her  eyes,  they  wore  such  an  ex 
pression  of  malice,  that  she  recoiled.  A  woman, 
nursing  a  baby,  and  scolding  two  little  children, 
who  were  quarrelling  together,  was  the  only  other 
being  in  sight. 

Lilian  passed  down  the  roughly -paved  street, 
directing  her  steps  towards  the  fountain  of  Trevi. 
She  reached  the  small,  crowded  piazza.  Women 
were  drawing  water  in  their  tapering,  broad- 
based  copper  vases;  contadini  were  loitering  and 
jesting  at  the  little  stalls ;  children  were  selling 
violets ;  itinerant  venders  were  filling  the  air  with 
their  discordant  cries ;  the  carriages  of  strangers 
were  driving  slowly  past,  or  stopping  before  the 
tumbling,  foaming,  broad -spread  torrent.  The 
Tritons  blew  their  horns  and  lashed  their  finny 
tails.  All  was  tumult  and  noisy  confusion  in  that 
one  busy,  restless  place  of  quiet,  silent  Rome. 

Lilian  threaded  her  way  through  the  crowd. 
She  entered  a  shop.  A  large,  cheerful-eyed  wo 
man  sat  behind  the  counter. 

"  Good-day,  my  sister,"  said  the  mistress,  ris 
ing.  "  What  can  I  do  for  you  ?  " 

"  There  is  a  woman,  starving,  near  by.  I  want 
food  and  help  at  once." 


LILIAN.  293 

"  Santa  Vergine,  what  things  people  do  hear ! 
Ah,  the  poor  find  it  harder  than  ever,  nowadays. 
Here,  Mariuccia  !  "  she  called. 

"  A  brown-skinned,  ruddy-rcheeked  peasant  ap 
peared  from  the  dusky,  inner  doorway. 

"  Quick,  take  some  soup  from  the  marmita  and 
a  half  loaf  of  bread,  and  follow  the  sister." 

Lilian  took  up  some  of  the  oranges  and  grapes 
which  were  placed  amid  the  dainty  cakes  and  del 
icate  confections  on  the  counter.     She  drew  forth  • 
her  purse. 

"Oh  no,  my  sister,  —  not  from  a  nun  !  " 

Lilian  silently  laid  down  a  coin  and  left  the 
shop,  followed  by  the  maid.  Her  heart  beat 
quick,  her  step  was  elastic.  She  took  no  heed 
of  the  passers,  the  fountain,  the  manifold  mem 
ories  of  the  place,  onde  her  favorite  moonlight 
resort.  A  sensation  of  joy,  almost  of  happiness 
ran  through  her,  as  she  sprang  up  the  dark  stone 
steps,  entered  the  narrow  room,  and  gave  the 
golden  orange  and  cooling  grapes  into  the  child's 
hot  hand.  The  little  creature  gave  a  cry  of  delight. 
Eagerly  it  pressed  its  parched  lips  on  the  fruit. 

Forgetting  her  hunger,  the  mother  leaned  over  it. 

"  Is  it  good,  my  blessed  angel  ?  "  she  said  with 
a  tearful  smile. 

25* 


294  LILIAN. 

"  Oh,  so  good,  and  so  good ! "  answered  the  child 
in  the  expressive  Italian  idiom. 

Lilian  gave  Dr.  Albertazzi's  address  to  the 
maid,  and  placed  some  silver  in  her  hand.  I 
wish  him  to  come  at  once." 

The  child  finished  the  fruit  she  had  given.  It 
turned  restlessly  from  side  to  side.  The  mother 
sought  in  vain  to  quiet  it.  Lilian  rose  and  drew 
near.  She  held  out  her  hands.  "  Will  you  not 
come  and  sit  with  me  a  little  while,  you  will  feel 
so  nice  and  fresh  and  cool  ?  " 

The  child  looked  at  her  a  moment,  undecided, 
then  stretched  out  its  arms.  She  seated  herself 
on  the  broken  chair,  resting  its  head  upon  her 
bosom.  Gradually  the  child  pressed  its  head 
back  to  her  arm,  and  lay,  its  look  fixed  on  the 
sweet  face  above,  with  *the  open-eyed  gaze,  so 
preternaturally  intelligent  which  we  see,  —  those 
are  happy  who  have  never  seen  it,  — in  the  eyes 
of  a  sick  child.  An  expression  of  gentle  quietude 
dawned  on  the  wasted  little  face.  The  child 
turned  its  head  towards  Lilian  and  lay  quite  still. 

A  step  ascended  the  staircase.  The  door  open 
ed  and  Dr.  Albertazzi  entered.  A  smile  played 
around  his  firmly  cut  mouth  and  softened  the  keen 
glance  of  his  eye  as  it  rested  upon  Lilian. 


LILIAN.  295 

"  I  am  glad  to  meet  you  here,"  he  said,  as  he 
looked  around.  "  You  were  needed." 

"  The  mother  was  starving,  I  fear,  and  the 
child  has  the  fever."  And  Lilian  bent  anxiously 
over  the  shrunken  little  form. 

The  physician  advanced  to  the  bedside. 

"  Ebbene,  my  poor  woman,  what  is  it  ?  " 

"  I  had  no  work,  no  money,  no  food." 

"  Coraggio.  The  lady,"  he  corrected  himself, 
"  the  sister  will  see  that  you  have  work  as  soon 
as  you  are  fit  for  it.  And  the  child  ?  " 

"The  fever." 

"  A  few  doses  of  quinine  and  proper  nursing 
will  soon  bring  him  right,"  said  the  physician,  as 
he  examined  the  little  creature,  who  moaned  the 
while  and  nestled  closer  to  Lilian.  "  Now  I  will 
go  to  the  hospital  and  bring  a  sister  to  take  care 
of  him  to-night." 

tfCan  I  not?"  asked  Lilian,  a  tone  of  disap 
pointment  in  her  voice. 

"  Not  at  night,  the  neighborhood  is  a  villainous 
one.  I  will  return  with  her."  And  he  left  the 
room. 

The  sun  was  sinking.  The  dusty  column  of 
light  which  streamed  in  through  the  small,  high 


296  LILIAN. 

window  was  beginning  to  pale,  as  the  physician 
again  entered  the  room,  followed  by  a  nun. 

"  I  will  take  the  child,  sister,"  she  said,  offer 
ing  to  relieve  Lilian  of  her  burden. 

The  child  raised  its  head,  looked  at  her,  and 
pushed  her  away. 

"  I  want  this  one,"  he  said. 

"  To-morrow,"  said  Lilian,  gently  disengaging 
herself  from  the  child's  clasp. 

As  she  descended  the  staircase,  she  heard  the 
child's  wail  —  "I  want  the  other,"  and  the  voice 
of  the  nun  again  promising,  "  To-morrow." 

Again  the  cup  of  human  love  was  held  to  Lil 
ian's  lips.  Not  as  erst,  sparkling  with  the  golden 
flush  of  joy,  but  a  cup  of  crimson  vintage,  watered 
by  many  tears,  —  such  as  good  men  have  drunk  of 
since  the  sun  first  trod  his  solemn  path  above  this 
troublous  earth. 

LXVIII. 

LILIAN  sat  beneath  one  of  the  ruined  arches  of 
the  Colosseum.  The  ancient  walls  rose  in  high 
and  wide  circles  to  meet  the  canopy  of  the  deep 
blue  sky.  No  footsteps  echoed  within  those  si 
lent  limits,  no  human  voice  disturbed  the  soli- 


LILIAN.  297 

tude.  She  sat  beneath  the  shade,  —  her  black 
robes  sweeping  around  her  in  heavy  folds,  her 
fair  face  looking  forth  from  her  snowy  coif  and 
sable  veil,—  serene  and  steadfast.  Her  hands  were 
folded  in  still  repose.  She  sat  and  communed  with 
the  spirits  of  the  past.  She  often  came  into  that 
holy  place  to  find  companionship  and  consolation 
in  the  sainted  air ;  to  breathe  in  courage  from  the 
mystic  consecration  sealed  by  the  blood  of  martyrs. 

A  party  entered  the  ruins,  and  chatting  gayly, 
approached  the  spot  where  she  was  seated.  They 
paused  to  look  around. 

"  How  much  that  nun  looks  like  the  beautiful 
Mrs.  Clinton,"  said  a  lady. 

"  What  Mrs.  Clinton,"  asked  her  attendant,  — 
a  young  man. 

"  Mrs.  Harvey  Clinton." 

"  I  can't  see  the  likeness.  Mrs.  Harvey  Clin 
ton  is  a  blonde." 

"  Oh,  no.  You  are  quite  mistaken,"  said  an 
other  voice. 

"  I  don't  see  how  I  can  be  mistaken.  I  saw 
her  two  months  ago,  on  the  Nile.  She  was  on 
his  arm,  walking  up  and  down  the  deck  of  their 
boat ;  ours  was  along-side.  She  was  very  fair  and 
fragile  looking,  and  she  had  deep  blue  eyes  and 
o-olden  hair." 

" 


298  LILIAN. 

"  There  must  have  been  some  mistake.  It  could 
not  have  been  Harvey  Clinton  that  you  met." 

"  But  I  know  him  as  well  as  I  do  you.  He 
was  thin  and  haggard -looking  enough,  but  as 
polite  and  considerate  as  ever.  To  be  sure,  he 
did  not  ask  us  on  his  boat ;  but  he  sent  us  a 
quantity 'of  wine, — we  were  almost  out,  —  say 
ing  that  he  had  no  use  for  it." 

"  Oh,  that  explains  it,"  said  another  of  the 
party,  laughing.  "  Now  we  see  why  it  is  that 
you  brought  away  such  a  confused  idea  of  Mrs. 
Clinton's  appearance." 

Laughing  merrily,  the  party  passed  on. 

Lilian  pressed  her  hands  over  her  eyes,  and  sat 
without  moving,  while  pangs,  sharper  than  those 
which  rent  the  martyrs,  racked  her  through  and 
through. 

Was  there  no  way  in  which  she  could  fulfil  her 
daily  mission  of  mercy,  and  yet  escape  the  anguish 
of  contact  with  the  world  ?  Was  there  no  hope, 
no  refuge?  Suddenly,  above  the  aching  torrent 
of  her  thoughts,  an  idea  rose,  clear,  distinct,  illu 
mined.  The  Hospital !  Yes,  in  those  drear  halls, 
sacred  to  Pain,  the  favorite  haunt  of  Death,  she 
could  pass  her  life,  unseen,  unnoted,  comforting 
the  afflicted,  ministering  to  those  that  mourn, 


LILIAN.  299 

smoothing  the  restless  pillow  of  disease,  soothing 
the  pangs  with  which  the  body  mourns  the  soul's 
departure.  There  was  her  appointed  place.  There 
would  she  go,  and  serve  and  watch  and  pray. 


LXIX. 

ANOTHER  sister  joined  that  patient  band.  A 
soft,  light  footstep  trod  the  gloomy  halls  of  the 
great  Hospital ;  a  low,  gentle  voice  whispered  its 
comfort  to  those  impatient  ears ;  a  tender  arm 
raised  those  aching  heads ;  a  sweet,  pale  face  bent 
over  those  sad  sufferers,  cheering  their  sight  as  by 
the  view  of  pure,  untinted  flowers. 

Watching  through  the  long,  still  hours  of  the 
night,  kneeling  by  the  dying,  with  solemn  care 
draping  the  dead,  serving,  waiting,  praying  ever, 
she  held  her  patient  way. 

Glorified  by  suffering,  transfigured  by  pain,  she 
dwelt  as  enfolded  by  the  Invisible,  —  she  walked 
in  the  light  of  the  smile  of  God. 


LXX. 

LILIAN  slept.  She  was  awakened  by  the  voice 
of  a  nun,  who  stood  beside  her,  shading  a  lamp 
with  her  hand. 


300  LILIAN. 

"  I  am  grieved  to  wake  you,  sister ;  but  a  mes 
senger  has  come,  and  asks  for  some  one  who 
speaks  English,  if  we  have  any  such  among  us." 

Lilian  rose  and  dressed  herself  in  haste.  She 
passed  the  dark  corridors,  and  entered  the  great 
vestibule.  A  servant  stood  waiting.  "It  is  not 
far,  my  sister,"  he  said ;  and  led  the  way  through 
the  silent,  half- lighted  streets,  towards  a  piazza, 
its  hundred  steps  and  stone  -  wrought  balustrades 
shining  brightly  in  the  moonlight.  Up  the  Sca- 
linata  they  passed,  and  stood  on  the  hill  above, 
the  Silent  City  beneath  them,  the  ancient  church 
and  still  more  ancient  obelisk  before  them,  the 
groves  of  the  eminence  stretching  motionless  away 
towards  the  outer  walls.  A  few  steps  brought 
them  to  a  lofty  palazzo  of  dark-gray  stone.  The 
great  door  opened  at  their  approach,  and  Lilian 
was  ushered  up  a  broad,  thickly-carpeted  staircase, 
through  richly-adorned  saloons,  into  a  large,  dim, 
heavily -curtained  sleeping -room,  A  lamp  glim 
mered  from  the  hearth ;  the  ticking  of  a  clock 
came  from  an  adjoining  apartment. 

A  tall,  severe -looking  woman  rose  and  came 
softly  forward  to  meet  Lilian.  In  a  whisper,  she 
conveyed  the  directions  for  the  night. 

"I  am  sorry  to  have  to  leave  her;   but  I've 


LILIAN.  301 

watched  three  nights,  and  my  master  will  not 
allow  me  to  take  care  of  her,  day  and  night,  any 
longer.  She's  as  gentle  as  a  lamb.  It's  a  pleas 
ure  to  wait  on  her ;  but  I  feel  easier  about  leav 
ing  her,  now  that  I  have  seen  you.  I  shall  be  on 
the  couch  in  the  dressing-room.  If  you  want  any 
thing,  you  must  call  me.  She  is  very,  very  ill." 

She  left  the  room  through  an  open  door.  Lil 
ian  sat  by  the  bed.  The  luxury  around  her,  un 
seen  since  that  one  dreadful  day  which  had  taken 
from  her  her  home,  her  name,  her  all,  filled  her 
mind  with  haunting  memories.  In  such  a  home 

as  this  she  had  lived  with  him.  In  such No. 

She  would  not  think.  It  was  over.  God  had 
taken  it  from  her. 

The  sound  of  a  door  carefully  unclosed  came 
from  the  dressing-room.  She  heard  the  voice  of 
the  maid.  "  She  is  asleep,  Sir ; "  and  the  door 
closed  softly  again. 

Lilian  sat  and  watched,  listening  to  the  light, 
hurried  breathing  of  the  sleeper.  At  length  she 
turned  restlessly  upon  her  pillow.  Lilian  rose  and 
bent  over  her. 

"  Do  you  wish  anything  ?  " 

"  No.  It  is"  my  head,"  she  whispered  ;  and  she 
pressed  her  hands  to  her  forehead. 

26 


802  LILIAN. 

Lilian  laid  her  palm  upon  the  hot,  throbbing 
brow.  The  lady's  hands  fell  back. 

"  How  cool,  how  soft,"  she  sighed. 

Lilian  stood  silently  beside  her.  The  lady  lay 
without  moving.  Only  the  quick,  hurried  breath 
ing  broke  the  silence,  mingling  with  the  ticking 
of  the  clock.  At  length  she  spoke. 

"  I  fear  I  am  very  selfish.    Are  you  not  tired?" 

"  No,"  replied  Lilian ;  "I  often  stand  so  all 
night." 

"  But  will  you  not  sit  down  ?  "  And,  moving 
with  difficulty,  she  made  place  for  Lilian  beside 
her.  "  I  cannot  rest  if  I  think  you  are  weary." 

"  Can  you  not  sleep  again  ?  "  asked  Lilian. 

"  I  fear  to  sleep.  I  so  often  have  dreadful 
dreams.  And  when  I  awake,  I  do  not  know  if 
they  are  only  dreams,  or  if  they  are  true.  Some 
times  I  think  it  is  a  dream  that  I  am  alive." 

The  veins  of  the  temples  beneath  Lilian's  touch 
began  to  beat  hurriedly. 

"  Do  not  talk  any  more  just  now,"  she  said, 
soothingly.  "  Will  you  not  hold  my  other  hand  ? 
It  often  happens  that  holding  a  hand  brings  quiet, 
dreamless  sleep.  Will  you  not  try  it  ?  " 

The  hot,  thin  fingers  felt  in  the  twilight  for  the 
gentle  hand,  clasped  it  obediently,  and  the  lady 
spoke  no  more. 


LILIAN.  303 

The  night  wore  on.  Slowly  the  gray  light  stole 
through  the  parting  curtains,  shedding  a  dim,  un 
certain  shadow  through  the  room.  Lilian  still 
held  her  hand  upon  the  sleeper's  brow,  the  un 
conscious  fingers  still  clasped  hers. 

The  sense  of  a  presence  came  over  Lilian.  The 
blood  at  her  heart  stopped.  Her  breath  was  sus 
pended.  Slowly  she  turned  her  head  towards  the 
door. 

As  if  struck  into  stone,  one  hand  holding  back 
the  heavy  curtain  of  the  doorway,  his  face  white, 
his  eyes  riveted  upon  her,  she  saw  Mr.  Clinton. 

A  chill  as  of  death  crept  over  Lilian.  She 
rose,  her  look  fixed  upon  him.  She  glided  tow 
ards  the  door  by  which  she  had  entered.  She 
glided  from  his  sight. 

Through  the  gray  dawn  she  descended  the  great 
stairs,  and  passed  through  the  deserted  streets. — 
Back  to  the  Hospital.  —  To  do  —  not  to  think  ! 

She  entered  the  halls.  She  paced  through 
them,  feverishly  searching  for  some  sufferer  who 
claimed  constant,  unremitting  care. 

She  paused  beside  a  bed.  A  nun  stood  laying 
wet  cloths  upon  a  child's  head. 

"  Sister,  let  me  take  your  place,"  said  Lilian. 

The  nun  looked  up  gratefully. 


304  LILIAN. 

"  How  kind  you  are  !  It  is  not  your  hour  for 
rising.  But  it  is  true  that  I  am  very  tired,"  and 
she  sat  down  and  sighed  wearily.  "  They  must 
he  changed  every  five  minutes.  It  is  his  only 
chance,  the  doctor  says."  And  she  retreated. 

Lilian  stood  ceaselessly  renewing  the  cooling 
bandages,  instinctively  clinging  to  the  compelled 
attention,  the  incessant  occupation,  as  an  anchor 
to  her  thoughts.  Sharp,  lancinating  stabs  seemed 
piercing  her,  red-hot  irons  searing  her.  It  was 
Mira  that  she  had  tended  through  the  night ! 
Mira !  A  storm  shook  her  at  the  name.  She 
spoke  it.  "  Mira."  It  sounded  like  the  trumpet 
of  death.  Still  she  fulfilled  her  task. 

Mr.  Clinton  stood  ever  before  her,  —  his  white 
face,  his  anguished  look.  How,  how  could  she  bear 
it.  Might  she  not  pray  to  die?  All  the  passion, 
all  the  vehemence  of  her  nature  broke  forth  within 
her.  The  very  foundations  of  her  soul  seemed 
yielding  in  that  fearful  strife.  Still  she  fulfilled 
her  task. 

A  nun  entered  the  hall  and  approached  her. 

"  Sister,  the  lady  you  watched  last  night  begs 
that  you  will  come  again  this  evening." 

"  Say  that  I  cannot  come,"  said  Lilian  in  a 
hoarse  changed  voice. 


LILIAN.  305 

The  nun  withdrew. 

Time  passed.  Still  the  storm  raged  in  Lilian's 
breast,  still  the  anguish  hid  from  her  all  save  its 
own  immensity. 

A  nun  came  towards  her. 

"  Sister,  you  are  wanted  in  the  reception-room." 

As  Lilian  entered  the  room,  a  stranger  met  her 
eye. 

"  I  come,  my  sister,  to  urge  upon  you  the 
necessity  of  acceding  to  the  wishes  of  the  lady 
you  tended  last  night.  She  is  in  a  most  critical 
state.  Any  excitement  might  destroy  her  at  once. 
Whether  she  recovers  or  not  depends  principally 
upon  her  being  kept  entirely  tranquil.  She  says 
that  your  voice  reminds  her  of  a  dear  friend,  that 
your  presence  soothes  and  comforts  her.  She 
wept  as  she  begged  me  to  entreat  you  to  come 
to-night,  and  I  must  tell  you  I  think  her  life 
probably  depends  upon  your  granting  her  re 
quest. 

Lilian  stood  grasping  firmly  the  back  of  a  chair. 
She  closed  her  eyes  as  the  physician  ended,  and 
turned  her  head  away.  For  a  while  she  stood 
motionless.  Then  she  turned  her  face  towards 
the  stranger.  It  was  ghastly  pale. 

"  I  will  come,"  she  said. 

26* 


306  LILIAN. 

LXXI. 

THE  evening  was  sinking  into  night,  as  again 
Lilian  entered  the  high,  richly -draped,  shadowy 
room.  As  she  approached  the  curtained  bed, 
Mira  took  her  hand  and  feebly  pressed  it. 

"  I  am  so  glad  that  you  are  come." 

She  lay  quite  still  for  a  while,  apparently  con 
tented  with  the  touch  of  Lilian's  hand,  then  rous 
ing  herself,  — 

"  Will  you  please  to  bring  the  lamp  nearer," 
she  said.  "  Your  voice  is  so  like  hers,  I  want  to 
see  if  you  look  like  her." 

Tremblingly  Lilian  obeyed. 

She  stood  holding  the  lamp.  Its  light  fell  on 
her  pale  face,  framed  by  the  white  bands  and 
black  veil,  the  eyes  deepened  with  pain,  the  lips 
parting  with  apprehension,  and  on  Mira's  ethe 
real  countenance,  surrounded  by  masses  of  golden 
hair,  the  large,  blue  eyes  looking  into  Lilian's 
with  a  longing,  wistful  gaze. 

"  When  she  is  older  she  will  look  like  you,  but 
I  hope  she  will  never  look  so  sad.  I  cannot  bear 
to  think  of  sorrow  coming  to  Lilian,  my  Lilian. 
Oh,  if  she  were  but  with  me  now  !  "  And  large 
tears  rolled  from  Mira's  eyes,  as  she  still  looked 
upwards  into  Lilian's  face. 


LILIAN.  307 

Lilian  bent  and  kissed  her  forehead,  choking 
down  the  gasping  sobs  which  strove  convulsively 
to  break  forth. 

Mira's  eyes  closed,  but  still  the  tears  fell  slowly 
from  between  the  golden  lashes. 

Suddenly  a  spasm  contracted  her  frame.  She 
looked  afFrightedly  at  Lilian.  "It  is  coming," 
she  exclaimed  in  a  horror-stricken  cry.  "  The 
crash, —  Ah."  —  And  she  clung  round  Lilian's 
neck.  "  Hold  me,  hold  me  fast,  —  don't  let  me 
drown !  "  And  she  shook  convulsively. 

Lilian  clasped  her  -close. 

"  Do  not  be  frightened.  You  are  here.,  safe,  — 
safe  in  my  arms." 

As  the  spasm  passed,  Mira  pressed  her  hands  to 
her  forehead  and  moaned,  — 

"  Oh  that  sound  of  rushing  water, —  will  it 
never  be  stilled  !  —  I  have  heard  it  so  long.  —  I 
am  so  weary,  so  weary." 

Lilian  knelt  beside  her  and  drew  her  head  upon 
her  bosom. 

"  Rest  here,"  she  said. 

Mira  lay  clasping  Lilian's  hand,  her  head  pil- 
Ipwed  upon  her  breast,  quietly  for  a  while,  then 
she  grew  restless. 

"  Oh    if  I    could    only  understand,  if  I  could 


308  LILIAN. 

only  remember.  Perhaps  if  I  try  to  tell  it,  it 
will  help  my  thoughts.  We  were  close  by  the 
Bay  of  Naples.  The  night  was  cloudy.  It  was 
so  close  that  I  could  not  sleep.  My  husband  had 
my  mattress  laid  on  the  deck  and  sat  down  by 
me.  I  fell  asleep ;  and  after  that  I  can  remem 
ber  nothing,  save  the  sound  of  rushing  water  and 
a  grinding  crash,  always  coming  back,  till  I  found 
myself  in  a  room  with  my  husband  and  an  old 
gray-headed  physician.  They  told  me  I  had 
been  very  ill,  and  begged  me  not  to  ask  any 
questions.  My  husband  was  so  altered,  so  care 
worn  !  All  things  seemed  so  different  from  what 
they  had  been  before  !  And  when  I  looked  in 
the  glass  I  did  not  know  myself,  I  was  so  changed. 
And  I  feel  so  tired  I  cannot  think.  I  cannot  re 
member.  I  cannot  talk.  If  it  were  God's  will 
I  should  be  glad  to  sleep,  sleep  here  in  your  arms, 
and  never  wake  again.  But  I  long  to  see  Lilian 
once  more  before  I  die.  I  know  nothing  about 
her  now,  but  I  am  sure  that  she  loves  me." 

"  Be  sure  that  she  loves  you,"  burst  from  Lil 
ian's  lips  as  she  pressed  her  cheek  to  the  burning, 
pulsing  brow.  "But  pray  do  not  talk.  Your 
fever  is  growing  higher  each  moment." 

"  Yes,  it  is  burning  me  up  ;   but  I  like  to  talk 


LILIAN.  309 

to  you,  and  my  thoughts  are  steadier  to-night. 
I  feel  as  if  the  clouds  were  opening.  I  can  re 
member  so  much  more  clearly.  I  can  recall  all 
things  as  they  were  ;  the  library  with  its  cool 
shadows,  Harvey  writing,  Lilian  reading,  while  I 
sat  busy  at  my  work ;  and  then  the  evenings 
when  I  used  to  sing.  —  They  loved  to  hear  me 
sing.  —  I  sang  every  night.  I  loved  best  to  sing 
this  song,"  and  she  raised  her  voice,  feeble  but 
sweet  and  pure  as  in  former  days  in  the  Litany, 
"  Ruhn  in  Frieden  alle  Seelen." 

Lilian  sank  on  her  knees  and  sobbed  aloud,  all 
possibility  of  self-control  swept  away. 

The  maid  hastily  appeared  at  the  open  door, 
then  rang  hurriedly. 

"  Send  for  Dr.  Albertazzi  and  the  other  physi 
cian  immediately." 

"  Oh  ma'am,  you  will  kill  yourself.  For  God's 
sake  don't  sing." 

Mira  paid  no  heed.  Her  eyes  were  filled  with 
strange  light.  Her  voice  grew  fuller  and  clearer. 

"What  shall  I  do !  "  exclaimed  the  maid.  "Dr. 
Albertazzi  told  me  on  no  account  whatever  to  call 
my  master. 

Lilian  rose  and  leaned  over  Mira.  She  spoke 
to  her.  Mira  gave  no  heed.  Still  she  sang, 


310  LILIAN. 

"  Ruhn  in  Frieden."  Lilian  wrung  her  hands. 
No  sight,  no  sound  without  could  reach  Mira's 
sense,  again  so  suddenly  darkened. 

A  rapid  step  passed  through  the  antechamber. 
Dr.  Albertazzi  entered  the  room  and  advanced  to 
where  Mira  lay.  He  questioned  the  maid. 

"  I  don't  know,  Sir.     The  nun  was  with  her." 

Lilian  came  to  his  side. 

"  You  were  sent  for  last  night  without  my 
knowledge,"  he  said  in  a  low  voice ;  then  louder, 
"  How  has  the  night  passed  ?  " 

"  She  was  quiet  at  first,  then  was  seized  with 
sudden  terror.  When  that  ceased,  she  began  to 
talk  of  long-past  scenes.  I  tried  to  quiet  her  in 
vain,  still  she  talked,  then  she  began  to  sing. 
She  has  sung  ever  since."  Lilian  was  trembling 
from  head  to  foot. 

The  physician  made  no  remark.  He  felt  Mira's 
pulse,  laid  his  hand  upon  her  head.  Still  the  clear 
voice  rang  through  the  room,  "  Ruhn  in  Frieden." 

"  Shall  I  not  call  Mr.  Clinton,  Sir  ?  "  asked  the 
maid. 

"  On  no  account,"  he  answered  sternly. 

The  physician  whom  Lilian  had  seen  that 
morning,  entered.  The  two  withdrew  to  a  win 
dow  and  held  a  whispered  consultation.  The 


LILIAN.  311 

sound  of  their  murmuring  voices  mixed  with  the 
song. 

As  they  left  the  window,  Lilian  drew  near  and 
looked  into  their  faces. 

"•We  must  wait  until  the  excitement  wears 
itself  out.  It  is  what  we  feared.  There  is  noth 
ing  to  he  done." 

They  stood  around  the  hed,  and  watched 
her,  lying  there,  the  chant  of  unearthly  sweet 
ness  pouring  from  her  unconscious  lips.  They 
watched  long  in  solemn  silence.  At  length  the 
voice  began  imperceptibly  to  sink.  Lower  and 
lower.  It  murmured  once  more  "  Ruhn  in  Frie- 
den,"  —  and  was  still. 

The  physicians  bent  over  her.  She  slept. 
Again  they  stood  around  the  bed  and  watched. 
She  slept. 

The  dawn  began  to  break.  The  maid  drew 
back  the  curtains  and  let  in  the  faint  light  of 
day.  As  the  light  grew  clearer,  a  change  mys 
terious,  awful,  came  orer  the  sleeper's  face.  It 
grew  thin  and  sharp.  Mira  opened  her  eyes, — 
large,  bright,  supernaturally  searching.  She 
looked  around.  Her  breath  came  harshly.  Her 
breast  labored. 

Dr.  Albertazzi  whispered  to  the  maid.  She 
left  the  room. 


312  LILIAN. 

Mira's  look  rested  on  Lilian.  It  began  to  dim. 
She  spoke. 

"  It  grows  dark.     I  am  cold." 

Lilian  threw  herself  beside  her.  She  clasped 
her  in  her  arms.  She  pressed  her  lips  to  hers. 

"  Mira,  Mira,  do  you  not  know  me  —  do  you 
not  know  Lilian  !  —  Oh  God,  save  her,  spare  her, 
do  not  let  her  die  !  " 

As  the  victorious,  self-immolating  prayer  broke 
from  Lilian's  lips,  Mr.  Clinton  stood  beside  the 
bed. 

A  long,  deep  sigh  breathed  forth  upon  the 
awed  stillness  of  the  room.  Another,  —  faint,  — 
fainter,  —  it  ceased. 

Mira  lay  dead  in  Lilian's  arms. 


LXXII. 

THE  registry  of  a  foreign  Protestant  chapel 
bears  this  record  :  — 

"  Married,  —  Harvey  Clinton  to  Lilian  De- 
Kahn." 

THE   END. 


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355 


IS  I 


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